


the venerean guise

by bleakmidwinter



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Orgy Planet, Pining, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, away mission, lots and lots of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24800212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleakmidwinter/pseuds/bleakmidwinter
Summary: Captain Kirk informs McCoy and Spock he has received orders directly from Starfleet that will force them to act as a couple in order to convince the inhabitants of Venus II, a well-known planet that practices only same-sex intimacy, to sign an alliance with the Federation.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 42
Kudos: 217





	the venerean guise

**Author's Note:**

> This took me fucking forever. I had the original series in mind writing this, but it can be seen as the alternate universe as well.

Doctor McCoy is suffering from a splitting headache. He cynically wonders when he _isn’t_ suffering from one, if there is ever a time when his head feels like nothing more than skin and bone. His temples pound a painful response; never. 

The situation is not made better by the fact he is being forced to spend alone time with the ship’s signature walking machine, the twig-legged, green-blooded, smarmy-lookin’, bowl-cut having hobgoblin from his worst nightmares.

“I wish Jim would hurry the hell up.” 

The goblin tilts its head and he can hear Spock revving up to give a response, like a computer starting up. “It is counterproductive to waste energy on complaint, especially since we have only been waiting a mere six minutes, and seventy-two—”

“Seconds,” McCoy groans. He buries his face in his hands. “Another two years with you, can you believe I’m spending another two years stuck on a ship with _you?_ ”

Spock is silent for a moment. “The contract we signed prior to the post we elected to take on this ship stated we would be spending five years in space. Why would you inquire into my belief of the mission’s continuance?”

“Christ, Spock. At least you can claim you’re something of a character.” McCoy leans back in the chair Spock had offered him. The back end of it is hard metal and digs into his spine. 

He’s cursing Jim for making them wait in Spock’s quarters and not his own. He pictures his soft bed, or a cold shower. Spock’s room runs hotter than a sauna. 

Spock could have easily kept up with the back and forth, but he remains quiet as he begins to pace. Probably thinks it’s “counterproductive” to indulge the Doctor any further. McCoy flicks a cup of pens on Spock’s desk.

He’s sure he sees a small irritated twitch of the brow in result of that action.

It’s hard to be alone with him. McCoy’s never quite sure why. It’s so easy to banter in the company of others, especially friends. Even when Spock eventually drags himself into sickbay for his physical, they manage to fill the silence. When they’re alone in a private room, the public cut off from them in every way, the silence is often overbearing. 

When they’re alone, McCoy likes to ask questions and Spock prefers silence.

Vulcans do not have the inclination to fill the space with unneeded small talk; he’s probably completely unbothered by the reticence as he paces, while McCoy spirals, thinking of something interesting enough for Spock to respond to.

“That vacation thing—” McCoy mumbles, unconfident, and Spock instantly cuts him off.

“What was that, Doctor?” 

McCoy scowls. “I was trying to ask you about that vacation, relaxation, technique you have. You used it when we were trying to escape the Kelvans.”

“I remember,” Spock notes.

“Why is it I never knew about it?” McCoy leaves out the, _I am your Doctor after all_.

Spock stares down at him, expression unwavering. He crosses his arms behind his back. “I did not see it pertinent to share that aspect of my culture with you.”

For some reason, the remark stings. Just slightly. 

“We’re friends aren’t we, Spock?” McCoy despises himself for the way insecurity seeps into his tone, rapidly depleting his confidence.

Spock had invited him to his home planet when he’d been going through Pon Farr, the worst experience of his life. They had fought in Roman-style battles, Spock had joined Kirk in hunting him down in the 20th Century, and McCoy had bonded with Spock’s mother, for Christ’s sake. Of course they’re friends. It’s a stupid question, really.

“Of course we are, Doctor.” 

Still, there is an air of relief that comes with the answer. McCoy sniffs, clearing his throat. “Jim’s not the only person you can confide in about stuff, you know. You know I wouldn’t judge you if you ever wanted to talk about something serious with me.”

“I am always serious.” 

“I’m trying to be a supportive friend you inhuman, pointed-eared–” 

The door chimes halting McCoy’s outburst.

“Come,” Spock says. Jim strides in with a big grin on his face. He looks at Spock and then McCoy who is still simmering from moments prior.

“You’ll really kill each other if I let you alone too long.” Jim laughs and leans up against the wall so he can speak to them equally. Spock raises a brow, and McCoy rolls his eyes. Jim looks far too happy to actually be joyful. It’s a facade. After years of being his friend, McCoy has become somewhat of a begrudging expert on the matter. 

“Hurry it up, Jim. I want to get back to Sick Bay as soon as possible.” He can feel Spock’s eyes on him and adds an emphasized, “At least there, my company is _wanted_.”

“You’re not going back to Sick Bay, Bones.” 

Momentary panic flashes through McCoy like he’d swallowed an iron hot rod. What the hell is he talking about? He doesn’t realize his hands have started shaking and he’s zoned out the rest of what Jim has said until Spock asks a question. 

“There will not be anyone else accompanying us on the away team?”

_Away team? What had he just missed?_

“No,” Jim responds.

“Jim, I have two surgeries scheduled for tomorrow,” he finally says, unsteady. He knows how much McCoy values keeping his promises to his patients. If he says he’ll be the one taking care of them, he needs to see it through no matter what.

Jim looks guilty, his lips are downturned slightly and his brow furrows in the way it does when he’s not sure how to break really bad news. “I’ve already transferred those surgeries to M’Benga. I need you to go on this mission.”

McCoy scoffs. “I love being the last one informed about everything on this ship.”

“Bones, please.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, Spock and I will handle it.” The reality that Jim just wants him and Spock alone finally sinks in when he says it. He pauses, imagining several catastrophes that could occur because of this decision. “How long?”

“Could take a week, maybe two. All depending on your efficiency. But, Bones–”

“Oh, we’ll be efficient. I’m sure Spock doesn’t wanna spend any more unnecessary time with me than I do with him. Agreed?” He winks at Spock with a grin. 

It is one of those moments Spock nearly smiles. 

“Guys, this isn’t just any away mission.” Jim sighs nervously, moving from one wall to another. He picks at his nails behind his back, one of his lesser known habits. “The crew will be unaware of the specifics, and there will be no crewmembers other than the two of you allowed to beam down for any reason.”

Spock and McCoy exchange glances.

“There will be no search parties if something detrimental were to happen to the both of us?” Spock asks. 

“Translation, what the hell are you sending us into?” McCoy adds.

Kirk upgrades from picking at his nails to biting at them in intervals. “I’m not entirely on board either. You know if anything were to happen, I’d go against my orders from Starfleet in a heartbeat.”

“These orders come directly from Starfleet?” Spock asks. The bastard actually seems surprised. If Vulcans knew how to look surprised.

“Spit it out, Jim,” McCoy says. “It’s eating at you. Give us all the gritty details. Leaving us in the dark isn’t gonna help anyone.”

Jim stands still for a moment, taking a deep breath. “I was contacted individually by Starfleet command to make contact with Venus II.”

“What?!” McCoy stands so he is level with him. “Jim, the Venereans have not been an option for decades. Why now? Why the change of heart?”

“I too have heard the rumors of the incompatibility with Venereans and other Humanoid species. It is unlikely to me that Starfleet would want to disturb their planet, especially when we have not received hospitality from them before in any form.” 

“What he said,” McCoy concludes. 

Jim laughs anxiously. “Yeah, I had the same reaction. I asked why another more experienced member of the command couldn’t do it themselves. The reason is that we’ve had the most experience with Romulans, and, well, the Romulans have sort of made enemies of the Venereans as of late.” 

McCoy lets out a sigh. “You don’t say.” 

“Are they finally willing to make a connection with Starfleet due to this recent transgression?” Spock asks.

Jim nods. “We are to convince them to sign an alliance. I’ve got the documents all here and everything.” 

It’s the first time McCoy has noticed the little disc tucked between two of Jim’s broad fingers. Trepidation begins to seep into his body again, making him feel a bit light-headed. 

“I still don’t understand why it’s just _us_ you want going down there, Jim. Spock and I are the last people that could convince anyone to sign ‘alliance’ documents. Especially after days in each other’s company. No offense, Spock.”

“None taken, Doctor.”

Jim laughs half-heartedly. “I hate doing this to you guys, trust me, I know it’s not the best situation. I was told that social skills were not the big problem, the bigger problem was picking officers I trust. Officers that I can make sure do exactly as I instruct. The Venereans don’t exactly need convincing, but they have their…customs.” 

Spock straightens up. “Ah, I see.”

“See what? You know what’s going on, Spock?” Spock doesn’t answer, but glances down at McCoy with a strange gleam in his eye. It’s neither friendly nor antagonistic, more of a somber curiosity. It makes him damn uncomfortable.

“They’re a race of scientists and medical men. Seeing as you’re the two people I trust the most, and you’re both such men, you know, well, I thought…” Jim trails off, laughing nervously again. 

“By golly, Jim, what the hell is it?”

“I believe the Captain is uncomfortable with informing us on our most daunting task,” Spock informs, as if McCoy couldn’t gather that much himself. “As far as I understand, the Venereans are an intensely intimate species. And they are an entirely same-sex preferred species, as in they believe that couples which share romantic relations should be that of the same sex, as it controls their population.” 

“What does that have to do with…” McCoy goes pale.

“I believe the Captain requires that we will act as sexual partners in order for the Venereans to accept our culture as one in which they can practice comradery.” 

“Don’t you dare say ‘sexual partners’ ever again, you pointy-eared, hobgoblin.” McCoy says this in a weak mumble, plopping down again in Spock’s chair. 

“Bones, I’m sorry. You know I don’t completely trust anyone in the science and medical fields other than you and Spock. It’s not much they want to see, just that you and Spock are…involved–”

“Jesus Christ.”

“–and that we are not so different from them. This is Starfleet’s orders, alright? It wouldn’t be any different than dressing up as Nazis, or pretending were Gangsters from the roaring twenties. Spock, it’s not too outlandish right?”

“I have never participated in such a mission, but I will perform to the best of my ability.” 

McCoy flinches. “Why us? You know us, there’s no _us_ , Spock and I won’t be able to convince them that we’re…you know, oh _christ_.” He buries his head in his hands. He can feel his face burning and Spock’s quarters feel hotter than they did before.

“A lot of people already think that!” Jim chimes in, unhelpfully. McCoy and Spock both snap their heads toward him with a unison of an accusatory, “ _What?_ ” 

Jim shrinks away just a bit. “You know, bickering doesn’t always appear hostile to most people. Sometimes not even to me,” he chuckles.

“Jim, we’re not. We’ve _never_ _–_ _!_ ” McCoy realizes that he is most likely as red as a ladybug in June. He looks to Spock who looks entirely unaffected. McCoy could strangle him. 

“Okay, okay! I know that.” Jim glances one more time between them, just in case they decided to spill any last secrets. “It’s not going to be a big deal. You just spend a week or so down there, interacting with the council and the citizens, exploring their society. Just also, occasionally, make sure the Venereans understand you’re in a relationship. And they do _need_ to understand. You can’t shirk.” 

“Damn it, Jim.” 

“You should be honored! You’ll be the first travelers to walk on the surface of Venus II.” 

“Oh, I’m honored,” McCoy grumbles sarcastically. 

“I too, am honored, Captain.” McCoy decides he will _definitely_ strangle Spock. 

“You would be,” he says instead.

“Try not to worry, Doctor,” Spock says calmly. “I understand that human intimacy is often invasive and perhaps you are worried about embarrassment, however, you must remember I do not experience embarrassment.”

“Tell that to Parmen and Philana.” 

“Bones, don’t,” Jim protests.

Spock continues, unaffected. “There are romantic traditions Vulcans share that would not cause tremendous amounts of discomfort compared to those of human origin. I would be delighted to share them with you to spare you such embarrassment.” 

McCoy calms down slightly. It won’t be too bad. He is comfortable with Spock; he knows Spock would never take advantage of his discomfort or anything of the like. He knows Jim wouldn’t do this to them just to mess with him. 

Spock’s his friend, and he’s being an asshole. A child.

“Sorry, I’m overreacting.” 

“Quite understandable, Doctor. I am personally not pleased about this ordeal of pretending to be your partner either.”

“ _Hey_.” 

Jim raises his hands at both of them to make sure they don’t jump into an hour-long argument. He knows they would, given the opportunity. 

“Are we on board here?” Jim asks. Spock and McCoy exchange glances one last time before they both nod, remaining quiet. “Okay, good. You’re going down tonight.”

“Excuse me?” McCoy barks out. “Tonight? First of all–” 

“They’re a nocturnal species.” Jim sounds tired. “I need you two to figure out your own sorta game-plan before you get down there. Work out all the kinks and figure out– you _know_ that’s not what I mean by that, Bones –and figure out boundaries and specifics.” 

Jim tosses Spock the disc he’d been holding. 

“These are the documents. There’s also a few files in there from Starfleet, everything we know about the Venereans if you want to make a quick glance through. We’ll be in communication, but after you’re down there, you’re alone. I might not even be able to send you supplies. They’re a jittery and distrustful species. Do you understand?”

“Understood, Captain,” Spock assures.

“I guess,” McCoy mumbles.

“Now,” Jim says, taking a few tentative steps towards them. “As a friend and not the Captain of the Enterprise, will you two be alright?”

“We’re grown men, Jim,” McCoy assures. He doesn’t like the nervous school-boy expression on Jim’s face; he doesn’t want Jim thinking he’s too much of a prude to complete this mission successfully. He knew what he was signing up for when he joined Starfleet. As for Spock–

“In what sense are you speaking?” Spock asks. Jim shoots an amused glance at McCoy.

“Spock, I’m asking you to submit yourself to something extremely personal. With Bones, no less. I want to know as your friend, if that’s something that will damage you in any way.” 

Spock cocks his head. “This will not damage me Captain, nor do I believe this mission will damage the good Doctor in any sense.”

“My dignity will be damaged that’s for damn sure,” McCoy drawls, glancing around the room for some sort of drink, a habit he’s never been able to shake. 

“I feel awful sending you down by yourself.” 

“Then don’t.” 

Jim’s expression becomes not so amused. “But, this is the way it must be done. No additional options. No pressure but the fate of the Federation’s future alliance with the Venereans relies solely on you two. Make it a good performance if you have to, but get the guy to sign these documents. Make them trust you. I’m here for you the whole way through. I’ll be here for you when you get back” 

_No pressure indeed, fat chance._

He’s preparing to leave. McCoy’s heart rate picks up drastic levels when the realization that he will yet again be alone with Spock sets in. 

“Where else would you be other than here when we get back, Captain?” Spock asks as if he’s genuinely confused by the wording of Jim’s support. 

“Don’t get smart with me, Spock,” Jim teases, eradicating the Vulcan’s tension with one of his classic, toothy, smiles. “Call me when you get there, boys.”

With that, Jim is gone. McCoy barely sees him swoop out the sliding door. The room suddenly seems dark, and still hot. Terribly hot. He fears he may boil to death.

“Doctor, you are sweating.”

“You keep your temperature too damn high,” McCoy dismisses him. The truth is, he rarely ever sweats. It usually happens when he’s nervous, and he’s sure as hell nervous right now. 

“I’ll turn it down,” Spock offers, casually moving to the manual thermostat. McCoy jumps out of his seat. 

“No, stop!”

Spock does, turns to McCoy with one raised brow. McCoy clears his throat and says, “I’d rather I be too hot than you be too cold.” When Spock’s expression remains unwavering, he adds, “It’s ethical.” 

It’s easily refutable, but Spock stays quiet and grows closer to him. McCoy fights the urge to retreat, an urge that claws at his insides. 

“Doctor, I believe we must commence in our preparation.” 

“Preparation?” McCoy’s voice has somehow grown small.

Spock harbors puzzlement in his eyes as he stops mere inches in front of his houseguest and the Doctor is forced to wonder if he always stands this close to him. Why has he never been _this_ innately aware of him?

“I would prefer to have your consent in order to demonstrate multiple forms of Vulcan affection.” Spock moves his head to try and capture McCoy’s eye contact. McCoy continues to glance in every which way except for in front of him. “Doctor…” 

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” 

There are hands on his shoulders all of a sudden, and McCoy jerks. Spock’s arms are retracted instantly from the display and the Doctor groans, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s not you, Spock. I’m not good with intimacy with anyone, not really, and I just...we…” 

“I understand the predicament. It ails me too,” Spock affirms. The Doctor can’t tell if this is meant to be comforting or insulting. He’ll pretend it is the former.

“Yeah, you hide it well, though.” 

“Is there something that I could do to ease your experience?” 

McCoy finally makes eye contact with him and finds that it’s not all bad. Spock has a warm gaze, and a polite one at that. He distinctly remembers looking into these eyes when he told Spock he had a good bedside manner. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll stop my yammering about this. Thank you for being so sweet, I guess.” At this, Spock’s mouth downturns slightly. 

“Vulcans are not sweet, nor was I displaying such a trait. I merely understand your situation out of my own empathy.” 

McCoy could punch him again. “Shut up, you pointy-eared goblin, you’re sweet. Sweet as a Georgia peach, no less.” 

He can’t help but smile as Spock straightens slightly in his offense, pulling back about a foot. He holds out two fingers, and McCoy gazes down at them dumbly. He looks back at Spock’s face which betrays nothing. 

“What is this?” 

“More than a handshake and less than a kiss.” 

“Stop speaking gibberish.”

Spock would deny the sigh he emits, taking McCoy’s right hand, moving the pliant index and middle to his own on his left hand. 

“Oh, what your parents do.” McCoy remembers the displays of affection between Ambassador Sarek and his human wife, Amanda. “Hell, if this is all it takes, we’ll get through this mission no problem!” 

In one swift gesture, McCoy moves the whole palm-side of his hand against Spock’s. “We’ll even do the other one and get really freaky–”

“ _Doctor,_ ” Spock says with urgency, moving backward instantly. He drags his hand away from McCoy as if he’d been burned.

“Sorry!” McCoy moves towards Spock. “Did I hurt you? What’s wrong?”

“You do not know, it is not truly your fault,” Spock notes in a low voice. “To do such an intimate gesture in public, on Vulcan, is not so much accepted as it is illegal.” 

Inside his head, McCoy is spiraling. What exactly had he just done? 

“I’m really sorry,” he repeats, at a loss for words. Spock nearly smiles, reaching out two fingers again. 

“Let’s stick to this, shall we, Doctor?”

McCoy smiles, returning the gesture. A pleasurable, light feeling, fills his head when he does it. “What is that?” he questions, resisting the temptation to move the tips of his fingers along the entirety of Spock’s fingers to seek out a more distinctive shape of the feeling.

“The sensation?”

“Yes.” 

“I am melding with you, in a sense.”

McCoy rips his hand away. “You’re reading my mind? You sly, sneaky, little, Vulcan. I coulda known you woulda, I don’t know–”

“I am not in any way reading your mind.” Spock sounds exasperated. “We are merely creating a link between ourselves. We will experience the impressions of feelings and thoughts. You will feel mine as well as I feel yours.”

“Well that makes me feel somewhat better,” McCoy grumbles sarcastically, but he returns his fingers to Spock’s. He can’t resist a smile. “Feels nice. I’m understanding a bit why your race enjoys this mumbo jumbo about telepathic empathy and all that.” 

“This mumbo jumbo, as you say, feels nice because we consider each other good company,” Spock explains. “You feel my contentment as I feel yours.”

“I’m not letting any mind melding speak for me. You know I despise you,” McCoy says with a grin. Spock cocks his head playfully.

“If Vulcans could despise, I assure you, the feeling would be mutual.” 

For a moment they’re casual friends again, co-workers. McCoy feels a wave of amusement pass through them, not sure if it is even his own. The reminder their mission starts in a few hours dawns on him again, and their physical communication grows cold, anxious. 

“So, uh,” McCoy clears his throat. “We do this a few times and the Venereans will deem our relationship real?” 

He tugs his hand away gracelessly. Spock doesn’t seem to care, his hand returning to its folded position behind his back. 

“I do not believe it will be that simple,” Spock says slowly. 

McCoy chuckles nervously. “I know, I know. I’m just trying to get out of it.” 

“If you prefer we practice the human traditions to make you more comfortable,” Spock starts, stepping one foot closer. McCoy backs up instantly.

“Nothing about this is comfortable, Spock, no offense.”

“Again none is taken, Doctor. However, this is a must. There will be a time when we will be forced to put on display such an act.” 

McCoy sighs. “Yeah, okay. Let’s make it spontaneous alright?”

Spock cocks his head. “If you are sure you will be able to perform your task with any sort of spontaneity or without practice.” 

McCoy scowls at the insult.

“I can _perform_ , I don’t need practice. It’s just kissing mostly. I’ll...I’ll close my eyes and think of some pretty Earth girl and pretend you’re not some rigid, walking, pointy-eared _asshole_.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ll do it, but I’ll do it when I damn well please, understand?”

“Affirmative,” Spock replies casually. He moves over to his desk and places the disc Kirk gave him into his computer drive. A daunting amount of files pop up. Spock’s gaze flits over them all briefly before he returns to McCoy whose arms are now crossed in his distaste of this entire situation. 

“Doctor McCoy, will you accompany me to the dining hall after I read over a few of these documents?” Spock asks. 

McCoy’s shoulders slump as tension drains from him and confusion sets in. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You accompany me for dinner on many occasions. I am asking if you wish to retrieve dinner with me before we depart for our mission in four or so hours.” 

“Oh, sure,” McCoy answers. He sits against Spock’s desktop, awkwardly kicking his boots against the floor while Spock reads. Occasionally Spock will jot a note down on his PADD, and he’ll try to sneak a glance at what it says. 

After a time, the disc is removed from the computer, and Spock grabs his tricorder and belt from his desk. They make a quick stop at sickbay along the way, for McCoy to grab his own gear. 

“Jim said he wouldn’t be able to beam anything down most likely, we sure we don’t want to bring a few days supplies?” 

They enter the dining hall together, and McCoy tries not to feel self-conscious about being alone with Spock. He never is, why should today be different?

“If I understand my research correct, while the Venereans avoided contact for decades, they are incredibly hospitable in person.”

“Makes no damn sense,” McCoy grumbles. He adds an apple to his order of steak and mashed potatoes. Spock gets his usual, a weird assortment of rainbow fruit. Some sorta orange drink that isn’t orange juice. He’s tried to tell Spock that he’s way too thin and should expand his diet, but if Jim’s the king of stubbornness on the matter of diet, Spock is the God.

“Tell me about Venus II,” McCoy demands when they’re sitting. While he impatiently waits for Spock to formulate a proper response, he takes a cookie from his own tray and places it on Spock’s. 

Spock glares at him, returning the cookie to McCoy’s tray. 

“For my sanity Spock, please. You’ve been looking like a pencil.” 

Spock raises a brow. “Doctors do not normally prescribe a balanced diet of sugar and as I understand the ingredient’s title, baking soda.”

McCoy snorts. “I do if they don’t have enough of it, or any at all.”

“Nor do they call their patients pencils.”

“I’m officially off-duty,” McCoy responds with a teasing gleam in his eye. 

“Normally, I might indulge your medical whims, however, I cannot consume chocolate. At least not in this current situation.”

Now it’s McCoy’s turn to stare. 

“Allergic?”

“Intolerant.” It’s not quite the truth, he can tell.

“I’m your Doctor, you’ll have to tell me sometime.”

“It is none of your concern. Medically speaking, chocolate is no issue.” Spock looks around the room, avoiding eye contact. A rarity for him to be uncomfortable. McCoy decides to drop the subject, for now. He’ll prod further another time. 

“Come on, tell me what I need to know about Venus II. You and Jim were needlessly vague. I want specifics. I want temperatures, I want necessary greetings or farewells, I want whatever you have.”

“I was formulating a briefing before you interrupted my thought process,” Spock declares, taking a bite of fruit.

“Well now I’m not interrupting **,** jackass. Spill the beans.”

“Doctor–”

“For God sake, Spock. It’s a figure of speech. There are no beans, just give me the damn details before I rip those bangs right off your forehead.” 

McCoy raises his brows, tilting his head in a gesture that confirms he’s serious in his threats. This only seems to amuse Spock who realigns his posture, and makes an intense effort to disguise the small upturn of his own lips. 

“This planet was labeled Venus II by the Federation as it is identical to your Solar System’s Venus in every way, save a few exceptions. The name they call their planet is unintelligible to us, and their language is impossible to speak on most humanoid tongue. Fortunately for us, many manage to speak English. They learned in expectation of our arrival, months prior.” 

“Spock, Venus is hotter than a supersonic toaster oven.”

Spock gives a half sigh. “I mentioned the exceptions. Venus II is still relatively hot, paralleling Vulcan and other desert planets.”

“Great, I’ll be sweating the whole damn time. At least you’ll be comfortable.”

McCoy digs into his steak as Spock explains more of the gritty specifics. He’s more than three quarters of the way through his meal when Spock is just about finished. All details about minerals and crap McCoy doesn’t care about. He was hoping to hear more about their customs on intimacy so he’ll know what he’s expected to do. He doesn’t even know how Spock retained all this after skimming the documents for such a short period of time. It’s rather impressive.

“Not much is known about the customs and traditions of the Venereans, except for what you heard from me and Jim in my quarters. We will strive to make a good impression.”

The mission. Right. McCoy looks down at his tray, seeing the remnants of steak and mashed potatoes. Guilt suddenly takes him over. 

“Shit, shouldn’t have gone with meat.”

“Why is that, Doctor?” Spock inquires.

McCoy’s ears turn red, and his brow furrows so hard he gives himself a headache. He can barely say it. “It’s not gonna be a problem if we have to, you know, uh…” 

“Kiss,” Spock finishes for him.

“Yeah, yeah.” 

“Being a vegetarian is my decision and not yours. I assure you kissing you will not be any sort of violation.” 

Jesus, he doesn’t have to sound so formal about it. McCoy looks to his right to see a female officer watching them. Her eyes widen and she returns to her table’s discussion. He curses under his breath and stands up, dragging Spock along with him by the arm.

“People are listening, we gotta get going.” 

“I would suggest waiting another hour or two,” Spock suggests.

“Let’s just walk around the planet a bit then. Before we meet the all high and mighty. I just wanna get out of here before some pervert overhears and starts spreading rumors.”

“Ah.” Spock takes their trays, discarding them. They exit the dining hall together, McCoy’s paranoia taking over as he watches the hallways for any prying eyes and ears. “I suppose I see no issue in this plan.” 

“Good, cause that’s where we’re goin’.”

* * *

The transporter room seems abnormally loud. His sensory perception is blown out of proportion with his nerves running the show. The quicker he gets off this ship, the better he’ll feel. Spock’s presence at his side is comforting. 

“Scotty, did Jim give you the coordinates yet?” McCoy barks out.

“Aye, sir.” 

"Beam us somewhere close to the coordinates Jim gave you, but not close enough, you hear? We ain't making contact quite yet."

"Aye."

Scotty’s a good man. He doesn’t ask questions. Spock moves to stand close behind him as they find their position upon the transporter. 

"Never getting used to these things," McCoy mutters when Spock gives the go ahead to Scotty to energize. 

Spock waits until they have materialized on the planet to respond. 

"They are incredibly safe, Doctor."

"Yeah, yeah," McCoy grumbles as he takes in his surroundings. "They've done their tests and their safety precautions, but you can't convince me that we don't lose a few brain cells every time we beam up and down.”

"I suppose I could argue that you cannot convince me or anyone else that we do." 

"Maybe one day, Mr. Spock. I’ll do a study."

The planet is patterned in bright orange and red hues. Similar to Vulcan in that it is urbanized in concentrated areas rather than dispersed. The heat is nearly unbearable, but it's no worse than the middle of Summer in Florida. 

"Think they have air conditioning?" McCoy says this rhetorically but of course Spock can't leave well enough alone.

"Doubtful."

"Unbelievable."

The two stroll around for a while, and McCoy's gaze wanders to the city a comfortable distance from here. He feels as if he were in an old Western film, taking in the country. If only they had horses. 

"Beautiful."

"Excuse me?" McCoy says, accusatory. He notices Spock is not looking at him, but at the sunset. "Oh." 

Spock doesn't notice his searing embarrassment, eyes fixed on the purple and blue hues which fall into lighter colors. The gradient of the skies vary on every planet they travel to. McCoy stands close to Spock, taking in one deep breath.

"Now this, _this_ doesn't get old."

"I am forced to agree with you," Spock says softly. McCoy wants to make a snide comment about how beauty is subjective and Vulcans are above that sort of thing, but he doesn't think it would sound right. There is also something quite serene about Spock's expression, in awe of the mystique of another culture and planet. He doesn't have the heart to break that. 

It’s actually captivating to see.

"We are the first outsiders to step foot on Venus II," Spock states. McCoy nods, realizing the gravity of it all. "It is quite the honor."

McCoy clenches his jaw trying to find the right words. "Wouldn't wanna be here with anyone else," he says quietly. 

Spock finally turns from the setting sun, a questioning look in his eyes. "Would you not prefer Captain Kirk?"

Stupid idiot. McCoy sighs loudly, running a hand through his hair, already feeling sweat accumulate at his temples. "It's just a formality, Spock. Friends say it to friends all the time."

Spock looks down at his feet for only a moment, before turning away. It's enough to make McCoy feel like he’s made a royal mistake.

"But, in truth, you'd be the one I'd pick if I could choose anyone. Sure we're not the most compatible people, but you make me comfortable in ways I couldn't be with Jim. I couldn't pretend to be...intimate with him, whereas you…" 

His cheeks are burning and he clenches his jaw once more in an absence of words.

Spock is facing him again, listening to every syllable with acute precision.

McCoy takes a deep breath, calms his thoughts before speaking again. "I know you can remain objective, no hurt feelings, yadda yadda yadda." 

It's mostly true. If Jim were here, McCoy's not sure if he could get past even holding hands. At least he knows Spock won't judge him for his fear of intimacy. Not that Jim would, but a Vulcan is just a much better choice objectively speaking. 

"I understand, Doctor. I find your company pleasant, thus I agree with your statement." 

"Thus you do," McCoy mutters. 

"Would you mind if I scan the immediate vicinity with my tricorder?"

"Knock yourself out, Spock," McCoy says tiredly.

He sits on the ground and watches Spock circle around him a fair distance away. For a while it is silent and peaceful. Spock is scanning rocks, strange leafless trees, bugs, the _sand_ McCoy guesses. He wonders briefly why mass urbanization is frowned upon on so many planets. Perhaps something to do with the heat, the cities are dispersed in clusters.

McCoy nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels something nudge his back. He swerves around, crawling backwards as fast as he can. "Spock!" He shouts.

It is a cat, no a panther, no _neither_.

McCoy stares at the animal with eyes as wide as saucers. It is the size of a housecat, and the shape and appearance of a black panther. It is sitting and licking at its fur as McCoy remains frozen in place.

Spock finally arrives at his side, sticking out his tricorder obnoxiously into the animal's face. 

"Fascinating."

"Stop, you'll scare it away," McCoy snaps, pushing Spock's hand down. 

Spock stares at him. "Did this creature not endanger you?”

"Not really," McCoy explains watching the cat-like creature intently. "It sorta nudged me, I guess."

"Unlike any animal I have ever come across," Spock states. 

"Yeah cause your planet is full of mutated bears and weird insects." Spock doesn't even sniff the argumentative bait. McCoy sighs. 'It's a cat."

"Not quite."

"It's a strange looking cat, but it's a cat. Watch."

McCoy leans forward, reaching out a gentle hand. He makes kissing sounds. "Come here, kitty kitty."

The cat makes eye contact with him, tensing up. Spock looks warily between the animal and the Doctor, hand on his phaser.

The cat prowls forward a few steps, sniffing at McCoy's hand. Its tongue suddenly lurches out of its mouth, a long, green and yellow, lizard-like tongue which laps twice at McCoy's extended arm.

McCoy shouts and draws back instantly. Spock immediately scans the transparent green substance the cat left on his arm.

"Not deadly," Spock notes, "however, this substance has an apparent cooling effect on the thermoregulation of the core temperature in humanoids."

"I know, I feel like I've taken a cold shower or something. Convenient." 

"Very."

McCoy stands up and Spock follows. "Can we keep it?" He asks.

Spock doesn't entertain him with a response, turning back towards the sunset which is nearly finished. The sky is a dark hue of purple.

"We should begin to head towards the settlement. We will be expected by the time we reach our destination."

"Okay," McCoy says, feeling out of breath. He looks back at the black cat pouncing around the sand dunes of Venus II. It extends its tongue to eat a bug and he can't help but feel charmed. 

As they move through the desert, the cooling effect of the saliva begins to wear off, and he begins to sweat. He never felt comfortable with heat, it always makes him more anxious as if he didn't already have enough anxiety. He used to get hives as a child and his mother would scold him for not taking better care of himself. Stress hives, the doctors called it. He worries about a resurgence with all this damned heat.

They get closer to the city when signs start to appear. Venerean language is incredible to look at, near impossible to even figure out where the characters start and end. Walking at Spock's side gives him comfort, navigationally speaking. 

"Would you care to hold my hand, Doctor?" Spock asks.

McCoy stops in his tracks, sputtering out garbled words.

"I will rephrase," Spock intertwines their hands. McCoy's chest tightens painfully and he fights the urge to draw away. "It would be pertinent to understand we are now beginning our mission."

"I understand," McCoy says softly, allowing himself to be led by Spock's hand now. He feels light-headed, the heat still not helping him in any way shape or form. 

He suddenly feels self-conscious about his own sweaty palms. He attempts to take deep breaths, but Spock is the one who stops in his tracks this time. Fucking wonderful.

"Doctor, I can feel your discomfort through our connection." 

"Shit, I'm sorry." 

"We do not need to continue this specific action–"

"No!" McCoy nearly yells. He looks around to make sure there are no Venereans in sight. "I don't wanna jeopardize our mission just because I'm acting like a baby about this alright? I trust you completely, Spock. I trust you when you make a decision, if you see fit that it is the necessary time to hold hands or whatever, I will trust your instincts. Don't stop being the brain just because I'm mildly uncomfortable."

Spock actually looks moved. "Thank you for trusting me."

"With this, I know I can." 

“You can,” Spock repeats in assurance. It makes something in his gut twist. It’s not quite anxiety, McCoy knows how that feels. He gives him a small smile and hides his face away, looking at the sand beneath his feet as it begins to turn into a harder gravel.

They continue walking, approaching what seems to be the Venerean equivalent of a gas station. 

"Jim on the other hand," McCoy continues after a few beats. "He'd take advantage of me every step of the way just to get a piece of me. I'm something of an item."

Spock lets out a short breath which suspiciously sounds like a cut off chuckle. McCoy grins, glad to have caused it. He may have tightened his grip on Spock's hand just a bit. 

Spock may have squeezed back just for a moment too. Light as a feather. Unnoticeable. But, he can’t be certain. 

As they grow closer and closer to the middle of the city, McCoy begins to spiral. The buildings are all crooked and tilt in strange ways that are not at all aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Their colors don't match either, one building a dark red, and another neon yellow. 

"If I didn't have vertigo already, I certainly do now." Spock looks around, as if just noticing the jarring architecture. He nods once.

"It is…nauseating to a degree."

More and more Venereans begin to enter into their line of sight. Shopkeepers are opening their stores, as the day for them has just begun. McCoy grows closer to Spock instinctually, as the Venereans watch them carefully.

One approaches them. Up close, McCoy observes their skin is a light purple, just as Spock's has a faint green tint to his own. Their ears are rounded but their eyes are narrow and long and all black. Hair is red, curly, and short. It's a male as far as he can tell. He speaks in a gibberish, his language no doubt. It sounds like a parrot screeching and pausing to snack at some nuts at every pause. 

"Does the guy even breathe?" McCoy mutters to Spock. Spock glares at him and turns back to the fast-talking Venerean.

"Apologies." Spock raises his hand in the Vulcan greeting. "We are travelers who are to meet with your leader. We were sent by Captain Kirk, and the Federation."

The man straightens up, grinning and revealing a lizard like tongue, not dissimilar to the one the cat in the desert had. "Kirk! Kirk! Kirk!" It chants with a strange accent.

"Yes," Spock remains placid. 

"Kirk?" He points at McCoy and Spock. Spock shakes his head.

"I am Spock. This is Leonard McCoy." 

"Howdy," McCoy adds.

The alien looks between them and then at their joined hands. The man releases a lovely sounding trill, and another man joins his side, with shaggier hair and blue eyes, the color taking up the entirety of his eyes, still. A trait that seems to run with the whole species.

They hold hands and the short haired one points to himself and says, "Lindarsule," then points to the man holding his hand and says something along the lines of, "Moshyanjule." 

"You care if I call you Lin and Mosh?" McCoy asks knowing they can't speak English.

Lin points to a brown tower close by, gesturing for Spock and McCoy to follow. They exchange glances, but opt to follow the two.

"It is safe to assume these two Venereans are taking us to their leader. They recognized the Captain's name."

"Maybe the word 'Kirk' means garbage on this planet and they thought we were calling them names. Maybe they're taking us to be executed!" Spock tightens his grip on McCoy's hand to shut him up.

"While it may be fair to assume Lin does not speak English, We do not yet know if Mosh can understand the language, and it would be unwise to make fun of their species and culture before we sign an alliance."

There’s something inherently satisfying in Spock using the nicknames McCoy made for them.

"You saying I can do it after they sign?" McCoy teases. "Hey don't look at me like that, I'm joking you fool." 

"I beg you to hold off on irrational comments until we find ourselves alone." 

"You're the irrational one, buster." 

Lin and Mosh bring them up a clear spiral staircase once they have entered the tower. There are many doors, all shut. The only light emits from torches lining the walls on every floor. McCoy knows if he looks down, he will instantly inherit his mother's vertigo.

"This is a damn fire hazard," McCoy grumbles, keeping his eyes on the alien duo in front of them who walk in unison up each step.

Spock, who had stopped holding hands with McCoy a few minutes prior in favor of his _precious_ tricorder hums, rather pleased with his findings.

"I have never encountered a transparent aluminum stairwell in my travels." 

"No kidding." McCoy does look down then, regretting the decision instantly. His primitive brain tells him he's falling and he stumbles back, caught by Spock. He takes a deep, shaky breath and shrugs him off. He mutters a half-hearted thanks as they catch up to their guides. Lin and Mosh trill, whispering to each other. McCoy would beat the tar out of them if he knew they were crap-talking them. It looks like that’s what they’re doing, sneering at Spock in a way he doesn’t quite like. He’d do it too. He’s always up for a little hustle and bustle. 

It is about twelve flights later when they reach their destination. Spock once more takes McCoy's hand which is trembling from the effort. 

"Jim couldn't have beamed us to the top floor?" McCoy whispers harshly.

"Doctor, I believe it was your choice to 'walk around and see the sights.'" 

Lin and Mosh whisper in strange alien dialect as they do some sort of pattern knocking on two large blue doors. McCoy lets out a loud sigh.

"I was wrong."

Spock turns to him with an amused raised eyebrow. "A miracle."

The playful teasing is helping McCoy forget how badly his stomach is churning and making him want to throw up everything they had at dinner. 

"One more remark out of you and I'm dragging you to your next physical by your toes," McCoy threatens with a small smile playing on his lips.

Spock's eyebrow only raises higher, and the door in front of them opens with a click. Lin and Mosh, still holding hands, turn and lean in to kiss both of them square on the lips. Mosh's lizard tongue invades McCoy's mouth for no more than three seconds. He can only assume Lin did the same to poor Spock.

McCoy stands in shock and revulsion as the pair make their way back down the spiral stairs. He makes a small noise, threatening to begin spitting out all remnants of the Venerean's saliva which tastes like dirt.

Dirt's not the worst taste in the world, but it's certainly no blue cheese caesar salad. 

"Spock, you okay?" He asks in a broken voice, not wanting to look at him for the next thousand years.

Spock begins pulling him by the hand into the room. 

"We must not delay, doctor. It would be suspicious to the high council."

What's suspicious is Spock's utter nonchalance at what just occurred, but he won't bring that up until later. As much as it pains him to admit it, Spock is right. They must do their jobs, above all else.

As they approach the high council's oversized pedestals, hand in hand, his mind can't help but wander to Jim and how he's going to wrangle him for not letting him know this was the _Venerean_ way of greeting and their custom of farewell. Even if he didn’t know it’s still his damn fault. Spock hadn't mentioned it in his short briefing, and he knows he would have if he'd actually known. McCoy can take a little french cheek-kissing as a greeting, or even a very, _very_ , short mouth-to-mouth hello and goodbye but he's pretty sure the guy's tongue had actually touched his uvula. At least Spock's Vulcan tongue isn't like that. It's when he hears Spock's voice beside him he realizes he needs to not be thinking about Spock's tongue right now. 

Especially while he’s performing skin-to-skin contact with a touch telepath. 

"Greetings council. We respect and appreciate your hospitality. I am First Officer Spock of the USS Enterprise. This is our Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Leonard McCoy. We are members of Starfleet and represent the Federation of Planets. We are here by your call."

"Welcome, travelers. My name is difficult to pronounce on the human tongue. You may call me Piro." Piro, a rather large Venerean who sits at the middle post has a bellowing voice, but that's sort of necessary considering McCoy has to strain his neck just to look all the way up at him. There are two women on either side of him on smaller pedestals. They are staring down at Spock and McCoy with giant black eyes. He suddenly feels as if they are judging him for some reason. Subconsciously, he tightens his grip on Spock's hand.

"You have traveled far to aid us and we will do everything in our power to accommodate you during your stay." 

"Thank you!" McCoy calls out. Piro's void-like eyes lock onto him. 

"This is your partner," He is questioning Spock, and McCoy could kick the Vulcan for the somewhat put-out sigh he hears from him.

"Yes, he is my partner."

"Who dominates?" 

McCoy's face turns beet red. He restrains himself from calling the man a pervert. 

"I do," Spock answers. 

That's it. McCoy is definitely killing him tonight. Even if he gets arrested, it will all be worth it. Where the hell does the hobgoblin get off saying he's the one who dominates? He is _perfectly_ fucking capable. 

"You are a Vulcan," Piro observes. "We are familiar with some of your traditions. Have you bonded with your partner?" 

"It is in the foreseeable future." 

McCoy feels like he's going deaf. He has no clue what Spock is saying, but he decides he'll go along with it until they're in private quarters. 

"We understand that you wish to craft a formal alliance with the Federation. We would be pleased to accept your request," Spock says. McCoy has to give it to him, Spock has a loud and commanding voice when he wants to. 

"We got the papers and everything," McCoy adds. He waves around the small disc Kirk had given them.

"Do you understand our preference for your extended stay, in order to observe your ways? We are a protective species. Trust comes rarely in our customs."

McCoy thinks that he could easily have a good argument with a Venerean on customs and morale. Maybe even better than an argument with Spock. As if Spock could read his mind in this very moment, he feels Spock's nails dig slightly into his skin.

He blinks up at him innocently, but says nothing in response to it.

"We understand fully and clearly, Piro. And we thank you for your hospitality."

"I have scheduled a town meeting with the subjects who have learned English. Tomorrow you will report to the town square at sundown so we can experience each other in a less formal manner."

_Experience each other in a less formal manner? McCoy would rather barf._

"Understood."

Piro makes a clicking sound which summons guards to their side. McCoy grows closer to Spock. Spock seems unaware or uncaring.

"My men will show you to your temporary quarters." 

Spock raises his hand in the ta'al. "Live long and prosper."

"Peace be yours," Piro responds. 

"And also with you," McCoy adds under his breath, with a healthy dose of sarcasm. He feels a little left out when Piro smiles at Spock and returns to a datapad on his desk without so much as another glance at McCoy. 

"Do not take it personally, Doctor," Spock says when they are brought back outside. "I believe this culture respects and praises the dominant of the partnership more so than the submissive."

"And you were so eager to snatch that all up for yourself," McCoy sneers. 

"I have no ego, Doctor."

"That's the understatement of the century. Hey do you guys speak English?" The guards don't even turn to respond to McCoy. Probably not. 

"I would suggest we wait until we are alone to speak of the events." 

"Yeah, yeah."

It is quite a bit of a walk until they reach a small ranch on the outskirts of the most urbanized area of their surroundings. It is quite the image, one out of a dream or a 20th century magazine for home living. McCoy must be ascending. For a moment, he feels as if he is home. 

He guesses since they're the first guests on Venus II _ever_ , they ain't just getting one bedroom, but a whole goddamn house.

His optimism is ruined when one of the guards slobbers all over his mouth. He barely suppresses the shudder that runs through him when he is finished. He turns to Spock this time and swears he's paler than he usually is. 

When the guards are about a yard away, McCoy lets out a sigh.

"Well that ruined the fun for me."

"I cannot claim to disagree," Spock admits quietly. McCoy thinks he’s been the one violated, a _Vulcan_ must feel ten times worse. McCoy slips his hand out of Spock's and suddenly feels inwardly cold despite the heat of the planet. 

"Ready?" 

Spock nods and follows McCoy down the pebble trail leading up to the door. It opens, no need for a key or code. It is homier than it appears on the outside. Couches of soft fabric and a fireplace (as if this planet needs one), and even a kitchen with an old fashioned stove, sink, fridge. 

"They must have gotten their hands on some vintage Earth stuff." 

He plops down on the biggest couch and almost feels at home. Spock’s tricorder is making its usual noises, of course it is. 

“Fascinating. No Vulcan architecture or decor to speak of.” 

“They didn’t expect _you_ , moron.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Spock, I’m damn tired. Can we hit the hay?” 

Spock sits beside him, posture far too elegant for the couch. He looks at McCoy questionably. “I do not believe the Venereans have supplied us with hay, Doctor.”

McCoy rolls his eyes and gets up. He gestures for Spock to follow and he does, ducking in and out of the low ceilings that dip from archway to archway. “Should be more than two bedrooms in this place. If not, I’ll take the couch.” 

“Illogical, Doctor. I will take the couch.” 

McCoy sighs loudly. “ _Illogical_ , Spock. _I_ will take the couch.” 

Spock is just about to retort when McCoy nearly topples into a woman standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs. She is a darker purple than the other Venereans they have met, her hair more of a strawberry blonde than a ginger. 

“Uh, hello,” McCoy grumbles as Spock joins his side. 

“Greetings,” Spock adds, “Do you speak our language?”

“I do. Suppose I’ll be seeing you two at the festival tomorrow,” She says. Her voice has a soothing trill to it, and she’s quite beautiful. McCoy makes an effort not to notice just how beautiful she is. He has a mission to perform. 

“So it’s a festival now,” he jibes. He tries not to think too hard about the last time he attended a foreign planet's _festival_.

Memories of possession and terrifying violence and rampage come to mind.

“I have made up your bedroom for you and your partner,” She states, ignoring the comment. “If you are in need of anything, I will be in the kitchen for your attendance.”

“Look doll, you can go home if you want. We do not need assistance,” McCoy tells the woman, perhaps a tad desperate. If she stays he’ll be forced to sleep in the same bed with Spock. He’d rather not have to think about the ramifications of this eventuality. 

“It is on the orders of my high council to stay where I am. Me and my partner are to be your temporary servants until further notice.” 

“They sound like you, Spock,” McCoy teases and gets zero reaction from the Vulcan other than a small twitch of his right brow. McCoy turns back to the maid. “Where’s your partner?”

“She is circling the perimeter and protecting the estate.”

“Are there dangers?” Spock questions. The maid shakes her head abruptly, and begins to retreat down the steps of the stairwell. He exchanges glances with McCoy who responds with, “Well, she really skirted that question, didn’t she?”

Spock’s gaze trails back towards the stairwell, eyes narrowing in thought. He suddenly turns and enters the bedroom. McCoy follows him begrudgingly. With a sigh, he cracks his back and ruffles up his hair to loosen the remainder of gel that has it feeling a bit too stiff today. “At least it’s a queen bed and not a twin.”

“Either way, we will manage.” 

“If you snore, I’ll kill you.”

“That would not be ethical,” Spock responds, taking off his shirt simply. He’s about to take off his black, Starfleet distributed undershirt when McCoy clears his throat.

“Spock let’s look to see if they left any clothes for us, for the night.”

Spock’s shirt remains on, and together they find two pairs of pajamas, a long sleeved black button up with a translucent sheen, and pants that match. Before Spock can undress in front of him, McCoy grumbles, “I’m gonna find the bathroom,” and dashes out of the bedroom. He practically slams the door of the bathroom shut and as quickly as possible, slips into the pajamas he found. They’re tight, and he knows he’ll sweat like a pig being roasted, but he couldn't care less. 

He’s seen Spock shirtless. He’s done physicals, surgeries, appointments.

There’s something about their situation that is making him jumpy and nervous, like a damn schoolgirl. Everyone thinks he and Spock…everyone on this _planet_ anyway. And apparently, according to Jim, a handful of the ship. Why? Is there something between them that only he is blind to? He washes his face with cold water, and buries the urge to shower. He’ll do it in the morning. He needs to get the night over with to calm his nerves. Once he sleeps a night in the same bed as Spock, this strange, unknown, feeling in his gut will go away. Like ripping off a band-aid. 

He returns to their bedroom to find Spock in the pants they had found, with no shirt on. He’s in the meditative position. McCoy’s eyes immediately wander to the middle of the chest, sees where his green blood is displayed more prominently in a light blush, in the curves of his pecs, around his abdomen, and the dips of his collarbone. 

His eyes open slowly, unfortunately to find the good Doctor gawking at him. 

“Doctor McCoy.”

“Spock,” he responds dumbly. 

“You will be far too hot wearing that night shirt, I suggest you remove it,” Spock says simply. McCoy’s stomach twists and his heart pounds suddenly at the command.

“Uh,” McCoy pulls at the shirt, his speech lost in his throat somewhere. He can’t seem to find it. He barely has the coherence to wonder why he’s acting this vacant. And certainly not enough to realize Spock has gotten up to cross the room and help him remove the shirt. Spock is halfway done with the buttons when McCoy grabs his arm. 

“I can, um, do this myself, Spock,” McCoy says in a low voice. “Thank you,” an even rarer addition to their normal discussions. Spock’s expression is unchanging as he returns to the bed and begins to find a comfortable position under the thin sheet. 

McCoy wants desperately to put his own shirt back on, feeling extremely exposed under the scrutiny of the Vulcan’s gaze. But, when he looks to Spock lying in bed, the Vulcan is staring at the wall as if he’s figuring out calculations in his head. McCoy ignores the pang of disappointment at the reality, instead focusing on how much cooler he feels without the shirt on. He turns the lights off and climbs in beside Spock, turning on his side and facing away from him. 

Spock’s breaths become even and pattern-like soon enough, not that he’s focusing on them. He turns when he knows for certain Spock is asleep and is surprised to find that Spock had turned without him knowing. His sleeping face is remarkably peaceful, the normal lines of agitation and the stress of work vanished from between his brows and around his eyes. McCoy expects his cheeks to be as soft as a peach. 

His eyes widen at his own thoughts and he flips back around, shimmying closer to the edge of the bed. McCoy’s has always had a problem with intimacy. If he sees potential, he crushes it. If he has one sinful _thought_ about intimacy, it keeps him awake.

He is kept awake for hours. When he falls asleep, it is because he pictures the end of this mission and only the end. Return to normalcy is upon him. The end will come as quickly as it takes to flip a page of a book. 

* * *

Spock is up before him. He sees the side of the bed that is not his tucked and made, neatly compact compared to McCoy who is tangled up in the sheets. 

His eyes flutter open fully at the most inopportune time. He has woken up half-hard (not so unusual for him) and the first image he sees is Spock bending over and backwards in various, nearly lewd positions. He’s stretching, the _Vulcan_ way. 

What once was half-hard is now relatively at full hardness. He looks away, embarrassment painting his face red. _Why the hell does he still have the goddamn translucent black pants on still?_ McCoy can see the damn outline of his... 

He sneaks a glance before turning away and pretending he is fast asleep. He is able to accomplish this for fifteen minutes. By this time, Spock has dressed in his uniform and is telling McCoy it would be an opportune time to rise. By this time, McCoy’s morning wood has become discreet enough to scurry by Spock unnoticed, so he can jump in a cold shower and pretend he never saw what he saw.

The cold shower feels like a thousand knives stabbing into every nerve in his body, but he knows it will feel better when the heat of Venus II threatens to roast him alive tonight. 

It feels strange waking up in the middle of the day. Must be somewhere around two in the afternoon. He yawns as he and Spock march their way down to the kitchen. 

McCoy nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees the girl from the night before standing by the front door. They two officers compose themselves.

“Don’t believe we caught your name,” McCoy states. He crosses his arms with an impatient expectancy. Her presence in this house doesn’t please him. He’d rather he be alone, he can barely stand _Spock_ as it is. 

“Hard to pronounce on your tongue,” She replies. “You may call me Guila.” 

McCoy restrains himself from rolling his eyes. He’s going to pronounce even the shortened version of her name wrong. He’ll try, but he could never understand why Jim chooses him for diplomatic missions. One of these days he’s going to run his mouth in all sorts of undesirable directions and make a fool of himself. 

“Guila, if you would join your partner outside, I would prefer to have this space alone for me and my partner,” Spock says with poise and eloquence. McCoy’s ears become a darker shade, and his mouth and brows twitch in the ways they do when he doesn’t exactly know what to do with a compliment. 

“You prefer your privacy?”

McCoy holds back the response; _we wanted it last night, idiot_. 

“If you please,” Spock says. “If only for the remainder of our breakfast.”

After a beat of consideration, Guila nods, bowing once, and exits the house. McCoy lets out a sigh which had been holding his tension hostage. 

“Thanks for that. She makes me nervous. When the hell does she sleep, anyway?” He asks as he hastily finds his way to the kitchen. Spock follows only to the archway where the wood floor ends and the tile begins. 

“You good with scrambled eggs?” 

Spock tilts his head. “I would prefer toast if there is any bread.”

“Well, if there’s eggs there’s bread.” McCoy grins as he begins to make his own meal. “Guess I’m the housewife in this relationship, ain’t I?”

Spock looks positively bemused. 

“Go wait in there, sweetheart. You’ll get your bread,” McCoy drawls with his consistent sardonic attitude. Spock stares at him blankly for a moment before obeying his order.

 _Maybe the ‘sweetheart’ is overkill_ , he thinks. He says that word to Jim sometimes when Jim is acting particularly bossy and not worth McCoy’s valuable off-time. 

He never teases Spock in the same way he teases Jim, or anyone else for that matter. Their banter is its own animal. He can’t make it what it’s not. In his pondering, he doesn’t realize the eggs are burning until he smells them. He curses and flips the pan over onto his plate. Steam rises up into his eyes as he ducks. 

He checks Spock’s toast every few seconds with a watchful eye. 

When he brings the plates out to the dining table, Spock makes no comment about McCoy’s burned eggs. However, he does say, “I did not request butter.”

McCoy glances down at where he spread a significant amount of butter on Spock’s toast. It looks like a damn high end restaurant masterpiece of a piece of toast served and crafted by Spock’s very own Southern Belle, he should be damn grateful.

“I didn’t _request_ critique,” McCoy spits. 

They eat in awkward silence for approximately forever. McCoy chugs down some juice he found in the fridge. Spock gets up only once to pour himself a glass of water.

Spock breaks the silence. “At the festival, we may be expected to return their greetings."

“Hello, how do you do, how are yah, howdy, and hey,” McCoy mumbles. “How’s that for a greeting?”

“Leonard,” Spock says, and the effect is instantaneous. McCoy drops his fork, and he looks up at those dark, unforgiving eyes. He can’t deflect with dry humor when he looks into those eyes anymore than he can find his own breath.

Spock called him by his name. He loses all his gusto.

“What is it, Spock?” He asks sincerely.

“What I mean to say, is that we will most likely have to perform mouth to mouth contact in the same way that the Venereans perform the act in their farewells.” 

“You can say smooching,” McCoy grasps desperately at the remaining shreds of dignity he has in his joke-bag of a brain. Spock lowers his head, imploring him to remain serious. “I know, I know what we’ll have to do. No need to spell it out.”

“I believe there is a need for it to be ‘spelled out’ as you say.” 

McCoy groans. “Christ, there won’t be an issue, alright? It’ll be okay. I’ll just close my eyes and think about barn animals. How’s that for an imagination? It’ll be better than whatever–”

“Leonard, may I perform this action on you now?”

McCoy chokes. Actually chokes; he’s banging on his own chest like he sees in the movies. Spock rushes to his side, jittery as a schoolgirl, prepared to do the heimlich maneuver if absolutely necessary, but McCoy swats him away rapidly, finally finding his breath, and nearly coughing up all of his breakfast. How attractive. 

“Water,” he croaks. Spock follows instructions well, handing him his own half empty glass. Spock keeps his distance, still knelt on the floor beside him as McCoy drinks, speech slowly returning to the Doctor.

“Spock, I don’t know. We should wait.”

 _Eloquent for you_ , he chastises himself. 

“You know I would not suggest the action if I did not believe it would benefit you. It is my belief that you would be more comfortable tonight if we were to...perform it once.” 

McCoy becomes distracted by his word choice. 

“Spock, do you not like to say the word kiss?” 

Spock does not respond. He reminds McCoy deeply of a large puppy dog asking with his eyes to be petted. He wonders briefly if Spock would like to be stroked behind the ears. Swallowing, he buries his thoughts to pull Spock up by his shirt and plant a dry kiss on his lips. He drops him inelegantly back onto the floor and takes their empty plates to the kitchen.

He knows Spock wants to argue that this was not a sufficient attempt, but he will not. Spock has returned to his feet, standing with his usual posture and McCoy is smirking when he enters the dining space once more.

“You done begging for it?” He teases.

Spock looks affronted, opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by McCoy.

“Listen, Spock. The thing is I’ve kissed men and women I’ve cared less about. You ain’t special. We’ll get through this, I promise.”

Some of it is true. What is not true, is that Spock is not special. He’s specifically special in the ways that make the good Doctor grind his teeth and pick at his skin. He’s special in the way that he can’t stop thinking about the brief second their lips touched. 

When there is a returned teasing twinkle in Spock’s eyes, he knows the night will be a long one. When his heart pounds louder than he has grown accustomed to over the years, he restrains himself from collapsing. 

* * *

“We should have just worn our regular uniforms. Did we really need to call Jim and ask him to beam down our dress uniforms?”

McCoy leans back so he isn’t crowding Spock. The Vulcan is helping him with the fastenings of his dress top. McCoy thinks the formal uniforms are quite hideous. He’s never been a fashion critic, but in this respect, he thinks they should burn.

Spock, however, could make a paper bag look elegant. It’s his figure, all sharp lines and smooth curves, thin as a model. McCoy averts his wandering gaze, attempting to reel himself in. Ever since the kiss, he had kept thinking about Spock’s lips all afternoon. It is not smart to give into primitive desire, on this mission of all missions. 

“You look stunning, Doctor.”

McCoy nearly chokes again. “Nobody looks good in these, Spock,” he lies, “Also, go back to calling me Leonard. It’ll be more realistic in front of the Venereans. If we’re supposed to be bumpin’ go karts, I don’t think you’d be calling me Doctor.” _Depending on the situation,_ he doesn’t add.

Spock stares at him innocently. “Go karts?”

“I’ll take you sometime. They’re fun,” McCoy says. “Though I’m not sure how much you’d get out of it, knowing you.” 

Spock considers this, going back to the former subject. “If I am to be the dominant partner, perhaps it would be imperative to call me Commander.” 

_Oh, not so innocent_. McCoy clears his throat.

“I think it’ll be fine if we just call each other by our names, Spock.” 

“Affirmative,” Spock declares after a moment’s hesitation. After a few minutes of finishing touches, the ball of anxiety in McCoy’s stomach grows wider, and he feels heavy as if he has to make the effort to drag his feet up and off the floor. He’s worried about the festival, unsure of his own ability to remain neutral.

“Leonard,” Spock says, raising two fingers. McCoy looks around their bedroom; Guila isn’t present. So, there is no reason for this. Who is he to argue? He takes a deep breath and raises his own two fingers, slotting them against the Vulcan’s.

In less than ten seconds, his anxiety begins to diminish. A unearthly feeling of pure calm washes over him, and it almost sends him reeling backwards from the sheer force of it. He takes a few steadying breaths. 

“Is that you helping me out?” He asks, gently gazing up at Spock whose eyes are warmly set on him. Spock doesn’t respond, but he’ll take it as a yes. 

Spock heads out the door of their bedroom, and makes his way down the stairwell. McCoy deliberates, a small smile cracking through his stoneface. “Damn telepath,” he mutters with unfamiliar sentimentality.

He follows Spock out the door, and they are led by Guila and her lovely partner whose name he hadn’t caught in the small exchange by the front door. The festival is not far from the brown building where they had met with the high council the night prior. He can hear music reverberating in the distance, the sound vibrating through his shoes. McCoy finds himself near the point of trembling when they close in on the festivities. He observes that it is quite similar to an Earth festival. Lucky for them. There is the music, which is quite heavy on the drums and the chimes. Lanterns line the street wires, and he feels absurdly as if he has traveled to San Francisco or Los Angeles, despite the sea of purple faces and ginger hair. 

Spock has taken his hand in his own, and he doesn’t notice it for a while as Guila and her partner kiss them softly on the lips, departing from them into the crowd. 

“I rate their kisses seven out of ten compared to the slobber-fest we got yesterday. You up for rating them with me, Spock?” McCoy gets no response from his Vulcan counterpart, but he can tell he is amused, and probably relaxing a bit due to the, so-far safe, tone the festival is emitting. 

It is not long before they are approached by Piro and his mate, a broad-shouldered dark purple Venerean with light green eyes. These eyes are much different from the darker hues he’s been seeing around here.

“Greetings,” Piro says straight to Spock. “This is my partner.”

“You may call me Koil,” his partner says in perfect English. McCoy resists the urge to shake his hand, knowing that is probably not what they’re after. 

_Too many names to remember._

Spock speaks with Piro about the festival, and he thanks him for putting such a lovely gathering together. McCoy stands gawking by his side, with Koil’s eyes only him. Koil must be a submissive just like him. _Should he talk?_

“Pretty cold on Earth compared to here,” McCoy says awkwardly. 

“I am quite interested in visiting your planet,” Koil says eagerly. “I hold the uncommon opinion that we should have interacted with your kind long before now.”

McCoy relaxes. “Good to hear, Koil. The Federation is looking forward to fully making contact with your people. You’ve all got quite the reputation back at Starfleet.”

Koil seems overjoyed at this.

“Fascinating,” he says in a far more chipper tone than McCoy usually hears that word spoken, and he resists the urge to laugh. He is certain Spock heard because he gets a sense of irritation passing through him that doesn’t feel like his own.

McCoy overhears Piro ending the conversation with Spock. Koil attaches to his side, anticipating their departure from the discussion. It seems the submissives truly go along with the lead of the dominant partner on most occasions. The social dynamics of this species would almost interest McCoy, if he hadn't been forced to be a submissive himself.

“Make sure to try the food gentleman. Especially the...well I don’t think you’d be able to pronounce it yourselves.” Piro and Koil laugh giddily as Piro continues; “It is the most similar to your ‘soup.’”

Piro points to two Venerean women pouring bowls of a soup-like substance for fellow Venereans. McCoy likes to know exactly what he’s putting in his own digestive system, but occasionally he has to suck it up just for diplomacy.

“We will,” McCoy promises, hating himself.

He nearly forgets what the next step of the Venerean farewell is until Koil is closing in on him. In his peripheral, he can vaguely see Piro doing the same to Spock. It isn’t just a kiss this time. Koil wraps one muscled arm around McCoy’s lower back, drawing him in as he uses his other hand to frame his face. A thumb slips over the Doctor’s lips and he opens his own mouth, shocked at his own compliance. A few more seconds of Koil’s tongue licking at the roof of his mouth and he pulls away, leaving McCoy aroused and uneasy. He winks at McCoy, disappearing back into the crowd with his partner.

It takes him a moment to not topple over, feeling faint.

When he finds his footing, he turns to Spock whose cheeks look a bit green. McCoy swallows and says. “I’ll have to give that a ten.”

Spock’s expression almost mimics that of a subtle envy. McCoy takes his hand once more, and leads him over to the soup. 

“How bad do you think this shit is going to taste?”

“Please remember, Leonard, that everyone at this festival can speak English fluently.” 

McCoy curses, the Venerean women serving the soup are looking at him curiously, as if they don’t understand the insult. It’s better than starting an argument on a diplomatic mission, he supposes. “Sorry, ladies, I got a shit sense of humor. Two bowls?”

“Kind to meet you, gentlemen” The woman on the right says as she pours McCoy his bowl. The other woman merely bows and pours Spock his bowl. 

“Thank you,” Spock says. 

“Not gonna ask if there’s meat in there?” McCoy prods.

Spock takes in a deep breath. “I believe I will arrest my own values for this one night, in order to satisfy the mission’s goal.” 

McCoy shrugs, and nearly spills his soup when the two women pull them in for a kiss as the other Venereans have been doing. This one is not good, and she bites McCoy as he tries to pull away. “Ow! I mean thank you, I mean, uh, see you later.” 

McCoy drags Spock over to an area where there are less people dancing and kissing and more mingling. The energy of the festival is beginning to feel like a college frat party, especially by the dance mat which reminds him of Risan belly dancing. 

“Two,” Spock says. It takes McCoy a moment to realize he’d just rated the kiss they’d received. McCoy laughs and nods. 

“That’s nicer than I’d give them. How generous of you, Spock” 

They talk idly with some gentler Venereans. Politics, economics, then the environment. He even asks about the funny desert cats they’ve got. McCoy surprises himself by not getting riled up about any of the subjects. Most Venereans other than Piro have a pretty normal and straightforward disposition about their government. They even got away without farewell kisses quite a few times. 

McCoy finishes his soup bowl, and is pleased to find a waiter taking empty bowls from all over clearing. Spock and McCoy hand him theirs, both feeling quite sated.

“That was actually really good,” McCoy says, feeling peppy all of a sudden. “Something addicting about it. I hope it didn’t contain too much sugar or salt.”

“I did not taste either,” Spock says inquisitively. 

The music begins to take on a more intense rhythm. The Venereans grow more wild as the sound becomes louder, almost hard to hear himself think. He turns to see Piro and Koil grinding against each other on what McCoy considers to be the Venerean equivalent of a dance floor, a large red rug spread out across from the soup station.

“Quite the species,” McCoy says, arousal from earlier stirring up within him. It’s hard not to feel that way, with such an attractive species undulating together, shamelessly grinding, and showing off their bare delights with pure abandon. As if this were the last night they could ever dance or make love. McCoy looks to Spock who remains impartial. 

“Do not be shy Earth man and Vulcan,” a female voice chimes from behind them. A new woman he has never seen. She is holding the hand of a short Venerean female with black hair. Quite a rarity it seems, to not be ginger. “Use this festival to show us how deeply you cherish your partner.”

The girls giggle.

McCoy blushes from head to toe. “Thanks,” he mutters as he’s pulled in for a kiss. He’s resigned himself to this action by this point. It doesn’t surprise him anymore. 

When they are out of earshot, he says “Five,” shocked to hear Spock say, “Five,” at just about the same time. They turn to face each other, and McCoy bursts out laughing at the agreement. 

“Are we on the same wavelength or are we just so similar, Mr. Spock?” He asks with a dangerous gleam in his eye he can tell Spock recognizes. 

The Vulcan tips his chin up to maintain some semblance of composure, but McCoy can tell he’s flattered by the coquettish banter. A strange feeling overtakes him. The titillating question in his mind dances on his tongue. 

“Shall we dance?”

“I am unpracticed,” Spock admits with reluctance. McCoy tightens his grip on his hand and without a response, leads him over the spread out red rug where Venereans bounce and writhe and shout with pleasure as they enjoy the festival to the fullest.

McCoy takes his other hand, and moves them side to side with foreign boldness, grinning as he witnesses the tips of Spock’s ears turn green. Even with the dim red light from the lanterns, and the shadows from the dancing bodies surrounding him, it is easy to see Spock’s skin become a harsher shade.

McCoy spins around under his arm so his back is turned to his chest and he sways back and forth, surprised at the enjoyment he derives from Spock’s gaze on the back of his neck. His hips move with the beats of the drums, and the heavier notes of the baritones. He wonders briefly with a clear head where the speakers are located.

“You are an expert,” Spock says in a low voice as McCoy spins back around with a grin, releasing Spock’s grip, swishing his hips around and moving his chest around in a rhythm that makes him feel connected with the music. 

“You just have to enjoy yourself, Spock,” McCoy says, feeling out of breath but unable to control himself. He’s not sure why his inhibitions are so precariously low. He’s not usually this daring, and he knows that Spock would never have agreed to dance on any normal occasion. Some logical part of him tells himself this is for the mission, and that it’s okay he is beginning to feel increasingly warm as he glances around at the party growing wilder around him. Another logical part of his brain tells him something is wrong. Piro and Koil practically have their hands down each other’s pants. Spock is moving slightly now, eyes trained on McCoy’s movements, mesmerized in a way. McCoy grows closer, putting his hands on Spock’s shoulders, their bodies too close to not be a tantalizing display. If he closes the gap between them he wonders how searing Spock’s body would feel against his own.

McCoy’s brain grows foggier, as if he were out of his body. He feels Spock’s hands on his hips and he closes his eyes, moving with Spock in a back and forth in a sway that slowly becomes not _enough_. McCoy’s eyes dart open at the sound of lips smacking. Almost everyone on the dance floor is in a lip-lock with each other as the music reaches a rhythmic crescendo. Grinding backwards and forwards. Soft trills replace the sound of moans as the music grows incredibly louder still. 

He’s hard, he’s known for a few minutes now, and feels as if he could jump Spock’s bones at any minute. _What the hell is happening to him?_ Is the last coherent, and sober thought in his brain before Spock’s hand is on his face and he’s looking into his eyes with dark, round, pupils, blown so wide McCoy’s knees feel weak.

“I think we should commence with the mission, Spock. If we do nothing, we’ll look...we’ll look…” Spock’ forehead is pressing against his and his eyes draw shut. He loses his train of thought, focus heightened on the Vulcan’s heat pressing up against him. Spock’s lips brush over his jawline, and the soft skin under his ear. He shudders and drags Spock closer. Spock is hard and it is the most incredible thing in the world. He realizes this shouldn’t be happening, and only an hour ago they were merely acknowledging the idea of kissing to keep up appearances. 

McCoy suddenly wants Spock inside of him, his mouth, every part of him. He tugs Spock closer, hands exploring his back, grinding up against him experimentally. _Jesus_ , it feels so good, he realizes in a dazed hysteria that it’s never felt this good.

“Doctor,” Spock stammers. 

McCoy is unable to keep his skin off of Spock’s, nuzzling against his head, searching with his lips until he finds Spock’s, moaning into his mouth as Spock’s control crumbles and they latch onto each other like wild animals. Lips biting and tongues sliding. 

The only difference between them and the Venereans at the festival is their species. Throw them in a bucket of purple paint, and even Jim couldn’t pick them out of the crowd. McCoy finds as hard as he searches within himself for the answers as to _why this is happening_ , the more aroused he becomes, and the harder it is to separate himself from Spock. 

“I want you,” he whispers to him. “Spock, I need you.”

The Vulcan is breathing heavily into his ear, gripping at his hips as if he could flip McCoy onto his back and take him on the sands on Venus II right now. 

“Doctor,” Spock says suddenly, and it sounds like a warning, but McCoy is in a deep haze, reaching a hand down to palm at the Vulcan’s erection through his pants. It’s hot and hard beneath his fingertips. He sucks at Spock’s neck, attempting to shush him. 

Spock lets out a breathy sigh as if he’s fighting an internal battle. “Doctor, please listen, I think,” McCoy kisses him again, and Spock pulls away even as McCoy tries to follow him. Too addicted to Spock’s tongue in his mouth, tasting the Vulcan, his mouth which tastes exotic and contains too much heat, he’s probably sweating but he’s too wired to care. “I think,” he says weaker, “there was something in the soup.” 

McCoy stops the kissing at his neck, eyes widening. His medical brain kicks into gear through his haze and he forces himself out of Spock’s grip. 

“Oh my god. _Oh god_ , Spock, what the hell are we doing?” 

"I do not know," the Vulcan whispers.

Spock is still looking at his lips with an animalistic Vulcan stance that is making McCoy want to drop to his knees and drive him over the edge with his tongue. How would he taste? Oh god, he would never be acting this way if they hadn’t consumed the soup.

“We need to get out of here, before we do something really stupid,” McCoy says in a frantic hush, unable to break Spock’s gaze. He’s not sure he wants to. He surely doesn’t, but they can’t do this here. Their friendship is far too important. 

“I agree,” Spock says, out of breath. “I will notify Piro you feel ill, and we will, we’ll…” He takes a step forward, looking seconds from ravishing McCoy.

He swallows a groan. “God this stuff is strong,” McCoy whispers, finding Spock’s hand with his own. He can feel Spock make a connection between their contact and the arousal is intensified. “Fuck,” he mutters, shakily drawing his hand away.

“Stay here,” Spock orders, drawing himself away as quickly as possible. He disappears into the crowd which has taken to public lewdness quite severely. McCoy stands in the middle of trilling, groping, fleshy bodies and he suddenly feels sick at his own arousal. He throbs with want and need, and simultaneously wants to take a phaser to his head for ever allowing the aphrodisiacs or whatever the hell they put in his soup to make him take advantage of Spock like that. 

Spock returns with Guila and her partner who commence in leading them back towards the house. McCoy praises the lord it is not a long walk back. He grows worried when his erection and arousal is nowhere near subsiding when they reach the front door.

"Sorry for cutting the festival short for you ladies. I’m not feeling so hot," McCoy mutters. It isn't a lie, really. The soup has him under this heavy, hard-to-see-through, fog. A fog which is refusing to let up and screaming at him to push Spock up against the nearest wall and have his way with him. It's comforting and terrifying to know Spock is in the same exact predicament. 

"We will return in a few hours when the festival has conceded. We apologize for any illness our customs may have caused." The girls don't bother with a smooch on their way back towards the city center. Probably don’t wanna catch his illness. McCoy wants to start throwing hands around for being fed an aphrodisiac soup without his consent, but he's not sure they even know how _big_ of a fucking no-no that is to Earth folk.

"Thank god they left," McCoy says, bustling up the stairwell with Spock in tow. "Rock paper scissors for the first cold shower." 

He swerves around at the top of the stairs, Spock eye level with him and he becomes stifling aware their bedroom is mere feet away and they are completely alone in this house. Both desperate for contact. What could it hurt? Two consenting adults–

Just when he's about to reach for Spock he remembers that this isn't consenting, it's _drugs_. Spock looks as if he's struggling with a similar thought process. 

"When do you think this'll wear off?" McCoy asks with a tremble in his voice, eyes roving over Spock's body with a lust he doesn't recognize. He feels as if he could combust.

"I pray soon. It is not wise for Vulcans to consume aphrodisiacs." Spock's voice is shaky too, and it is the first time tonight McCoy realizes Spock is scared. Terrified, even. Well, of course he is. The fear of the blood fever is strong in his race, he doesn't know if this will trigger some inner Vulcan process, something that will make him lose himself. 

"I think you deserve the cold shower," McCoy says with as genuine a smile as he can muster. Spock shakes his head.

"Meditation will be more efficient for me. Please, go to the shower."

McCoy has to physically make an effort to keep the invitation, _join me_ , from slipping out of his mouth.

They deliberate on top of the stairs for a few moments. McCoy squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. The last shred of his self control snaps and he grabs Spock by his shirt, tugging him close, kissing him harshly and rambles, "Just a little while longer and we won't talk about it later how's that?"

Spock is already kissing him back and the heat is returning. The ache in his gut momentarily subsides as Spock keeps him pinned to the wall devouring his neck and kisses down his collarbone, wishing to go further but they both know it would be something they could never come back from. "Spock," he moans softly, tugging at his black hair, adoring the silky feel of it in his grip. He finds his lips with his own again, kissing him frantically as if he'll never kiss anyone else. "It's going to be harder to take a cold shower if we keep… _yes...please_ ," 

He slides his leg between the Vulcan's thighs and has another moment of stark clarity, pushing him away just as fast. "Sorry, we need to actually stop now," McCoy says, mournful.

"I'm sorry–" Spock starts.

"Don't you dare start apologizing," McCoy snaps, avoiding eye contact to squeeze past him and to the bathroom. He ignores the full-body ache that forcing himself to leave brings. "This is way beyond us. Blame this planet's god awful fucking soup."

When he's in the shower, he burns as the cold water coats his body and continues to sting. He does not grow used to the temperature; the drugs in the soup keep him warm and wanton. The shower becomes a fifty seven minute affair until he eventually feels numb against the heavy spray of the showerhead. He turns the water off, happy to find his erection diminished. For a while, it felt as if he'd never be flaccid again. He still feels dizzy, his mind foggy as all hell, but he fortunately also feels exhausted. 

It takes him another fifteen minutes to gather up the courage to enter their bedroom. Spock is in bed with the lights off. His shirt is off but this is unsurprising, with whatever was put in their soup making McCoy's blood boil hotter than the desert weather has been. He is relieved Spock is already asleep as he climbs in beside him and keeps to his edge of his side. He refuses to acknowledge the nagging arousal that is more than willing to stir if he focuses on the scent and warmth of the body's presence beside him.

It is the soup. It's the drugs. It is _just_ the drugs. Nothing more.

* * *

He wakes up with a migraine. He groans, sitting up and struggling to reach for his medkit. He injects himself with a hypo, instantly feeling the ache fade to a dull roar. 

_Oh shit._

The events of the night prior rush into the forefront of his memory bank, like floodgates swinging open. There is no helpful memory obfuscation that comes with a hangover. He remembers every detail, grinding up against Spock at the festival, tasting him. _What kinda Hellish festival was that anyway?_ Starfleet couldn’t have warned them about this? There is no way they didn’t know about the Venereans being into drug-induced orgy parties. 

He spends another few minutes feeling sorry for himself and his situation as he suits up. Spock isn’t here, which is a relief. He’s hopefully not even in the house; perhaps he went on a trip with Piro and Koil and isn’t going to be back until the end of the mission. McCoy could live with that. Jesus they’d kissed.

_They’d done far more than kissing._

He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, unable to forget the sensuality of their bodies moving together, how right it had felt in the moment. God, he’d been acting like a teenager. Dilly Dallying is going to help no one, he decides.

McCoy spends a tad too much time on his hair in the bathroom, thoroughly brushing his teeth, still somehow able to taste Spock in his mouth. A part of him is oddly satisfied, unable to be rid of the phantom sensation of Spock’s lips on his own, how it had felt to drag him up against a wall and kiss him til they were breathless. McCoy hopes all the drugs are out of his system; he’s starting to worry they’re not. 

When he gets downstairs and sees Spock in the living room, he realizes that the drugs _are_ completely gone. There is only unbearable awkward silence between them. Spock is sitting on one of the couches, reading a book. He puts it down instantly when he sees McCoy, looking regretful when he does.

Neither of them know how to act. 

“There is fruit in the fridge,” Spock notes. McCoy gives a curt nod, bustling over to the kitchen without another word. He feels as if he can breathe for a moment, shoveling a handful of fruit onto a plate, not even thinking about having anything other than a glass of water with it. He can’t stomach it.

He returns to the living room, sitting on the couch across from Spock. They stare at each other, trying to find the right words.

“Listen, Spock…” McCoy starts. When he trails off, he realizes that he has no idea what he means to say. His mouth snaps shut.

“I apologize for my behavior, Doctor,” Spock says sincerely. He looks as if he means to say more, to admonish his own actions further. 

McCoy looks at him like he has three heads. “Spock, it’s not your fault. It’s not either of our faults, remember? We just have to live with what happened and move on. We can be adults about this right?” 

Spock nods.

“I could wring their necks for not warning us,” McCoy adds as Spock composes himself.

“It is likely that they did not understand the impact such a custom would employ on our own. We are new to their species as well as they are to ours.”

McCoy shudders. “All I know is that I’d never force them to do a potato sack race in my hometown without warning them ‘bout the specifics.”

“This was in no way similar to a potato sack race.”

“You’ve got that right. Haven’t acted that foolish since the academy, barely even then.” McCoy finds that he’s chugged all of his water. Looking at Spock, even across the room, earns him a consistent dry itch in the back of his throat. 

A few more beats of suffocating silence.

“I know I said not to apologize, but I’m feeling that urge right now. Strong as hell,” McCoy says quietly, picking at his fruit.

Spock nods. “In a sense, we were both taken advantage of.”

“You value your dignity more than I value my own,” McCoy claims and watches Spock’s eyes flit down to his feet, almost shy. “How are you holding up, as a Vulcan?”

“It is not as dehumanizing as many other missions we have faced together,” He confesses, leveling with his gaze. McCoy remembers him being forced to kiss Nurse Chapel, to sing like a court jester or a slave. He swallows, feeling bile.

“How are you holding up as a human?”

Spock stiffens, never liking being called a human. Though it’s what he is. He’s not a full Vulcan or a Human. He’s both. McCoy knows there’s anger, rage, embarrassment all tangled together like a Gordian knot somewhere inside him.

“I am fine,” Spock says with a serene finality. There is a recognizable warmth in his stare. A weight has lifted from the room; McCoy smiles with a nod, and shoves down the idea of joining him on his couch. 

“I am fine, too,” McCoy says with a smile. “I hope they don’t consider it an insult that we abandoned the festival last night.”

“I should think not. I spoke with Piro about our delight at participating in their rituals and customs, and he believed me. For a distrustful species, they have a lack of skill for detecting exaggeration.” 

Spock offers to take McCoy’s dishes back into the kitchen. McCoy agrees, following him with a calculated distance between them.

“I believe you just insulted the man.”

“Perhaps just their customs.”

“Still,” McCoy mutters. He leans against the archway leading into the kitchen, leans further against it when Spock rides up to his side as if nothing had transpired the night before. 

“I spoke to Guila this morning. We are expected in the council’s boardroom by sundown.”

Spock’s scent is a bit overwhelming from where he’s standing. McCoy imagines putting his face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the exotic mixture of fresh linen and the beach. He shouldn’t smell so good, like _those_ things of all things, but it’s all McCoy can think about. He doesn’t realize his eyes are on Spock’s lean neck and he’s ignored what Spock had said until Spock leans down, catching his gaze.

“Doctor.”

“Oh, uh, good to know. Same room we were in the first day?”

“Yes.”

“Great,” McCoy mumbles, retreating to the living room. Spock is hot on his trail and he tries not to think about last night. Spock certainly isn’t. If he continues to think about him in that way, he’ll go insane. 

“You appear troubled, Leonard.”

“Who me?” McCoy asks in the most charming voice he can muster. “Just tired. Head’s still giving me a bit of a pounding. How about you? You need a hypo?”

“I believe I will manage.” 

“Spock, does your head hurt or no?” He questions gently, eyes roving over his face for some sort of answer between the lines. “Sit down,” he says.

Spock does without argument. McCoy digs into his kit for another hypo, pressing it to Spock’s neck. He holds him still with the other hand, vaguely feeling his pulse beneath his fingertips. It’s intoxicating. He pulls back as formally as possible, but Spock is looking at him with an almost fondness. It’s not fondness; it can’t be.

Spock doesn’t do fond. 

“It’s a while til sundown,” McCoy says slowly, and _god dammit_ , he doesn’t mean for it to sound like an invitation. He’s not sure he’d mind if Spock takes it as one, however. 

He doesn’t.

“I believe I shall make contact with the Captain. We have yet to update him on our progress.” He takes out his communicator, preparing to head outside to the garden. Somewhere with space and peace and quiet.

McCoy jolts into panic mode. He grabs Spock’s arm. “Spock, you can’t tell him about what we did. Don’t say anything, _please_.” 

Spock stares down at him, lips turning down a fraction. “I cannot lie.”

“Not a lie,” he says, exasperated, “Just don’t give him any details. If he asks if we were smooching and up in each other’s stuff during the festival, sure tell him, but he’s definitely not going to ask that, so I’m just asking you to leave out the specifics. Can you do that for me?”

Spock seems unperturbed. “If you wish.” 

McCoy lets out a shaky sigh as Spock heads into the garden in the back of the house. He can see him talking behind the sliding glass doors and decides to head upstairs to the bathroom. He washes his face with cold water, cursing to himself. He’s still attracted to Spock. He still wants to jump his bones, and it’s not the soup. 

So what, he’s got a little crush. He’ll live. He manages to get by without chasing down every beautiful woman he sees in the halls of the Enterprise. 

He can get over this. Spock is one handsome devil, sure, but he won’t be able to handle the embarrassment if he makes the wrong move and pushes Spock away. 

“Doctor?” He hears Spock call. He instantly fixes his hair in the mirror before Spock can get to the top of the stairs. He comes out of the bathroom with a contrived smile.

“The Captain informs us that according to our progress, he expects us to be off the planet in less than two days,” Spock notifies. McCoy nods.

“Did you tell Jim to bite me?” he grumbles.

“I would do no such thing,” Spock says with a cock of the head.

“Want me all to yourself, I get it,” McCoy teases. 

Spock raises a brow, a teasing gesture thrown back at him, and McCoy realizes with sudden clarity _this_ is what they do. They _flirt_ , they don’t just banter. All those arguments, all the times he’d been to the point of snapping, but not knowing if he wanted to punch Spock or do something else, something he could never pinpoint. Albeit, it’s usually aggressive flirting, but it is flirting nonetheless. How could he have been so blind? 

McCoy watches Spock turn and trot back down the stairs with a graceful ease. He watches him disappear into the living room with wonder. He likes Spock.

He _like-likes_ Spock. _God how old am I_ , he thinks in immediate hindsight. 

Relaxation falls over him, and he suddenly has the urge to tell him. But, he can’t, can he? Spock doesn’t even feel the same. He’d think McCoy was just projecting from the night prior. He wouldn’t even take him seriously if he confessed his feelings. 

The anxious knot in his stomach is back. The peace he felt was nice while it had lasted.

* * *

“No, Spock, the symbol for rock is a fist not a circle. Let’s try this again.”

McCoy and Spock sit next to each other on the couch while McCoy desperately tries to teach his Vulcan friend how to play rock, paper, scissors. An Earth classic.

For a smart guy, Spock can be incredibly stupid.

“Paper wins over rock,” McCoy says, flattening his hand over Spock’s fist. Spock’s fist clenches tighter, a minuscule action which puts his complete and utter human frustration on display.

“I do not understand why paper wins over rock, but I will accept defeat. Is there a strategy you are using?”

“Spock, there’s no strategy in rock, paper, scissors, but I do see that you keep choosing rock every three turns. You should switch it up if you want to win. Otherwise, it’s a game of chance.” 

McCoy smiles at Spock’s brow furrowing; he puts his complete focus into the next round. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”

Spock chooses scissors. McCoy chooses rock. The Doctor laughs, as he smashes the Vulcan’s metaphorical scissors and literal dignity. 

“I am not fond of chance,” Spock states, lying back against the couch. Apparently he is done with this game. McCoy mirrors him, groaning lightly as he feels his back crack.

“Didn’t know you were fond of anything,” he muses.

Spock is quiet for a moment before responding. “I am fond of you, Leonard. I expected you knew that.”

McCoy’s heart stops a beat as he turns to see Spock gazing at him reverently. As if McCoy were the only person on the planet. Well, he’s the only human, he supposes. McCoy's gaze flicks down to his lips and he feels himself inching forward instinctively. Impossibly, Spock makes no move to stop him, but before it can become anything more than an almost-moment, Guila rushes through the front door, marching into the living room with a military-like quality. 

“The sun is falling,” She announces.

 _You’re a shit-head_ , McCoy forces himself not to say. 

Spock gets up, expression betraying nothing. McCoy wonders if he knew he was going to kiss him. Would Spock hate him if he knew?

“Are you ready, Ashayam?” Spock asks, holding out a hand. McCoy blinks with an innocent curiosity at the word, taking the Vulcan’s hand and instantly feeling a fondness run through him. It is Spock’s, _for_ him. 

It’s hard to break eye contact with him to walk behind Guila and her mate. There is silence between them and the girls as they make their way towards the ominous brown tower which holds the larger than life pedestals. At least it is less daunting than an orgy festival that he’s certain he never wants to participate in ever again. 

However, he has a feeling this planet will become a fun Shore Leave spot for most people if Venus II allows it to be so. Jim would have a field day. 

“Your thoughts are scattered,” Spock observes softly as they reach the transparent aluminum stairwell. He turns to the Vulcan with disbelief.

“I thought you said you couldn’t read my mind?”

“I am not. I know, however, I am feeling a sense of panic from you that I know is not my own. I do not wish for you to be in distress.” 

McCoy lips tug up into a grin. “Too much of the old monkey brain for you, huh? I’ll try and calm down, sweet cheeks.” 

A pause.

“Sweet cheeks,” Spock mutters with pure disdain.

“You’re my partner,” He says with his eyes trained on Guila in front of him in case she overhears him being disingenuous. “You’ll have to put up with it.”

“I do not understand,” Spock says, sounding positively grumpy. McCoy could jump for joy at the accomplishment.

“Listen if I have to be Ash Yams, I can call you sweet cheeks or occasionally pumpkin, maybe even doll-eyes, if I so please. So shut it.” 

“Ashayam,” Spock corrects under his breath. He says it so quietly, that McCoy doesn’t dare ask him to repeat himself. Or explain. Another time, he’ll ask him. When he’s certain Spock will give him a straight answer. He’s not sure the ‘Vulcan Honesty’ would be quite such an honest thing in this very moment.

Guila and her partner open the big doors that lead into the council room. They turn and bestow Spock and McCoy the Venerean parting kiss. Memories of the festival threaten to come up within him like the aftereffect of food poisoning. He shoves them down as they move swiftly to the spots beneath Piro’s pedestal.

Spock begins to speak of their gratitude for their inclusion at yesterday’s festival. He’s got a better poker face than McCoy. If he were speaking, he would have included some thinly veiled criticism about their life choices as a species, and they probably would not have gotten anywhere with the contracts. 

Spock takes a turn into talking about the economics of their planet, and how trade and cooperation could be useful between Earth and Venus II. McCoy wonders why they can’t just say, _hey the Romulans want you dead, and we wanna help, sign the damn documents._

Spock’s hand remains solidly intertwined with McCoy’s, and McCoy resists the urge to squeeze. 

He looks up at Piro, instantly remembering his partner Koil. Such a strong, burly, man. One of the only good parts of the festival. McCoy is partial towards the people he meets on his travels who share his values, not to mention how good of a kisser he had been. He zones out of the conversation even further to remember how slick and cool Koil’s tongue had felt in his mouth, and what a heavy weight his arm wrapped around his back had been. God, his hands had been on his hips at one point. McCoy hadn’t been kissed like that in a long time, and he’s blushing slightly just thinking about it.

There is a sudden pain in his hand, he looks down to see Spock digging his nails into the back of McCoy’s hand, with a side-eyed glare.

“Cease thinking of him,” he whispers darkly, smoothly returning to the conversation with Piro as if nothing had happened. McCoy stares at Spock blankly, processing the fact that Spock had in fact been reading his mind, and how defensive he had been about McCoy thinking of Koil. 

He does cease thinking of Koil. But, to get Spock back for being so rude to him, he vividly pictures their time on the dance floor. He allows himself to remember the way Spock had kissed him with his tongue and hot breath, how McCoy had teased his neck with his teeth, mesmerized by green blood rising to the surface when he sucked on his skin. 

When Spock turns back to him, shock displaying on his face, McCoy can’t help but shoot him a knowing smirk.

Spock naturally loses his train of thought, struggling to return to what he had been telling Piro. McCoy knows it’s his fault, but the Vulcan deserves it for invading his thoughts. Damn Hobgoblin. 

They are finished quicker than McCoy would have expected. Piro leans forward, and this time takes in both of them, glancing from right to left.

“We can see from your participation last night that you two are fleekthrashnya,” The last word is almost indistinguishable, “In our dialect, this means we can see how much you value your partnership. You are incredibly sensual and loyal.”

McCoys turns slightly red, swallowing at the assessment. 

“If you would provide us with the proper documents, we will gladly form an alliance with the Federation, and will set up contact with your higher representatives post-haste.” 

Just like that, they are shuffled into a smaller, conference-looking room. Piro joins them within a few minutes and he and Spock settle the details, the meeting ending with Piro signing an extremely long name on the dotted line on Spock’s PADD. 

“I would provide you with a proper farewell, but I am not in the company of my partner,” Piro says, bowing slightly as an offering instead.

“It’s a shame. Would’ve liked to say my goodbyes to Koil. Lovely fellow you got there,” McCoy adds a polite wink and delights in Spock’s heavy stare on him the instant he does. He does not turn to respond to it. 

“I will notify Koil of your regrets,” Piro replies. 

“Please do,” McCoy says, as suggestively as he can. 

“If you gentlemen wish to stay a day longer, we would be open to your company on our grounds. Your presence was highly appreciated during the festival,” Piro tells them. 

The thought of staying here another day doesn’t bring much comfort, but the immediacy of their departure brings less comfort. He’s not sure if he’s ready for things to go back to the way they were. At least not between him and Spock.

“I believe we will be heading back to our ship as soon as possible, though your hospitality is most appreciated,” Spock says steadily. He seems eager to get back to the ship, far more eager than McCoy is feeling at the moment. 

“Peace be yours, travelers Spock and McCoy,” Piro says. It sinks in that they have made a contract with the Venereans. They are the ones to bring further peace into this galaxy. It is a wide and pleasant feeling that makes McCoy bounce up on his toes.

“Live long and prosper,” Spock discloses. Their eyes are both on McCoy then who grapples with several different Earth partings.

“Uh, Godspeed.” Piro does not seem to understand but he smiles nonetheless, pleased with the closing statement. They depart from the council room and return to the outdoors with Guila and her partner trailing ahead of them. He’s going to miss this place, just slightly. Perhaps he can come visit Koil or Guila on Shore Leave. He doesn’t want to stay for any of their damn festivals, though.

He looks down at Spock’s hand which is still joined with his. Spock is being strangely unresponsive. When Spock isn’t chatting, he is usually taking in his surroundings. Right now, he is staring straight ahead, unaffected by anything going on around him. 

He can’t feel a thing from their connection.

A pit opens in McCoy’s gut. He wonders if he offended him earlier with the thoughts he had conjured up. It had been meant as a jest, but perhaps Spock did not find it so.

They receive one more parting kiss from Guila and company, and begin to gather their things in the living room. Before McCoy can get in a word, Spock flips open his communicator. McCoy sighs.

“Enterprise, come in Enterprise. This is First Officer Spock.”

“Heya, Spock,” Kirk’s voice answers. It’s nice to hear the voice of a friend after all this internal mayhem he’s been struggling with. “How is everything? How’s Bones?”

“Good, Jim!” Bones calls out, strapping his med-kit back on his belt. 

“We have completed our task, Captain. If you could inform Engineer Scott to beam us up at these coordinates whenever possible, it would be most appreciated.”

“You’ve got it. Kirk out,” Spock flips the communicator shut and straightens up, waiting to be transported. McCoy is staring at him, expecting a glance or one of Spock’s brows to raise. Something that made him feel less on edge. He wants to reach back out and take his hand, but that’s not something they can do anymore.

With a heavy heart, he realizes. The mission is over. 

It takes ten more seconds for Scotty to beam them up. The familiar beeping and humming of the Enterprise allows him a moment’s reprieve from the heavy weight inside of him. They are home. Spock is already out the door of the transporter room, most likely on his way to the bridge. McCoy sighs once more, feeling as if he’s lost something important.

“Have a good time down there, laddy?” Scotty leans closer to whisper. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.” Jim must have run his mouth to Scotty or maybe Scotty had to be informed for some reason. Either way, the whole ship will eventually be wanting to know the details. The dirty, gritty, awful, details. The Venereans had signed the documents, and the mystery of Venus II is a forgotten one. 

He attempts to let go of a deeply rooted tension, leaning on the control panel, careful not to press anything. “Would you like to get a drink with me when your shift’s over, Scotty? I really need a drink right now.”

“A good hard scotch?”

“The hardest.” 

* * *

McCoy is sulking in his quarters. He hadn’t known he was sulking until Jim arrived at his door, a smile slowly turning into a frown when he saw him.

“You’re sulking,” he observes, and McCoy has to agree that yes, he is.

McCoy gestures for Jim to sit down and he does, crossing his legs and leaning back as if he were in his home in Iowa. “You’re usually in Sick Bay, even on your downtime,” Jim explains. “Chapel said you’ve been squirreling away in here for a week or so.”

“What I do in my own time shouldn’t concern you, Jim,” McCoy says tiredly. He hasn’t been getting a lot of sleep lately. It’s his own fault. 

Jim sighs, sitting up and leaning towards him, opening himself up to be a support system if McCoy so desires. He’s not sure he wants to deal with Jim’s unbridled optimism right now. 

“It concerns me because I’m your friend and you haven’t done this... hell, I don’t think you’ve _ever_ done this.” Jim glances around his quarters. “I am also concerned, because you haven’t talked to Spock in a week, and this all started when you got back from Venus II.” 

“Maybe I’d rather keep my business to myself,” McCoy suggests, though he feels guilt at shutting Jim out. He’d much rather be open to him, but he’s had more reliance in shields and walls during his lifetime. 

“It also becomes my business as the Captain of the Enterprise,” Jim says in a serious tone. “When my Chief Medical Officer spends most of his time out of the Sick Bay, and continuously puts off giving me his mission report.” 

McCoy looks down at his feet, feeling pathetic. “I’m sorry Jim, I’ll give you the report as soon as possible. I’ve just been exhausted.” 

“What’s wrong, Bones? Talk to me,” Jim presses. 

McCoy lets out a shaky laugh. “Childish, ridiculous, idiotic, issues.” 

Jim keeps his gaze on McCoy, imploring him to explain further, but he gets nothing. McCoy reaches for the half empty glass of scotch on his desk. He downs it in one go. 

“You and Spock are a piece of work.” Jim huffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “He gave me nothing either. I’d at least expect him to be able to give me a report on time. This is an important mission, and you’re both being so cryptic I could rip my hair out.”

McCoy turns cold.  
  
“You talked to Spock?”

“Of course I talked to Spock. He’s been worse than you, he’s barely been on the bridge. He didn’t even apologize to me for the missing report so thank you for being the good friend,” he jokes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What _did_ he tell you?”

“Nothing, like I said. Why?”

McCoy sighs, relief flooding him. Spock had kept his word. He has no idea what he’s supposed to write in his report, though. He supposes Jim is going to have to find out about the festival, and the dancing, and the _soup_ at some point. 

“God, Bones, you’re shaking.”

“It’s fine, Jim,” he says. “I’m just not as big a man as Spock is.”

Jim narrows his eyes, brain flitting through several theories. The Doctor can see it in his eyes, he’s dissecting his reactions, trying to grasp at straws. 

“Did you and Spock have to do anything weird?”

McCoy’s eyes immediately betray his answer, because Jim gasps.

“Oh god, Bones, did you have sex?”

McCoy chokes. “Jesus Christ, Jim, of course we didn’t.”

“Well, I don’t _know_ –”

“No, it was just kissing, and, uh, god,” McCoy runs a hand through his hair. “This planet had a way with aphrodisiacs.”

Jim leans closer with wide eyes. “They gave you aphrodisiacs?”

“More like fed it to us without our knowing,” McCoy shakes a hand to stop Jim from overreacting. “It’s a part of their culture, they didn’t seem to know that it’s not really something you should do to your alien guests.”

Jim remains wide-eyed, ever curious. 

“It was strong stuff,” McCoy starts out with a small smile. Jim was bound to find out anyway, and some part of him finds it therapeutic, to admit this was something that had happened between him and Spock. “We were at a festival they were holding in honor of our arrival. They gave us soup, and suddenly it was a practical orgy on the dance floor.”

“But, you didn’t–”

“No, Jim, we didn’t. If Spock hadn’t realized, we might’ve. He really was quite something down there, keeping me sane and all.” 

“I think you need to talk to him,” Jim says softly. “He’s been looking as miserable as a Vulcan _can_ look.”

“It’s not the aphrodisiacs that are the issue for me, Jim,” he says unsteadily. If he says it out loud, it may become a reality. “I think I, uh, I might have developed a little something down there.”

Jim cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

“Feelings.” His vulnerability shows clearly in the way he says it. He’s completely unable to face Spock knowing all he’ll want to do is return to that night, the night they were drugged of all things. It’s a sick feeling to have, and he feels a venomous guilt in his chest the more he thinks about it. Seeing the shock on Jim’s face slowly become one of acceptance, and understanding, he feels ever more ill with remorse.

“You have to tell him about these feelings,” Jim prods gently. 

“He doesn’t want ‘em.” McCoy bites at the inside of his cheek. “God, Jim, it was drugs, it was nothing, and I made it something. I’m a fool.”

“Len, the look on his face every day for the past week tells me otherwise. I’ve never seen him act this way. Why do you think that is?”

“How am I supposed to know?” McCoy barks, but the words have some sense to them. He hasn’t seen Spock for a week except for once when they avoided eye contact in the halls. Like teenagers after an awkward dance at the prom. 

“Please, just go to him. Sort something out,” Jim suggests. “If not, just sort it out enough to give me a solid report. Heavy detail on the aphrodisiacs.”

“Don’t get crass with me, kid,” McCoy grumbles and Jim slaps his cheek lovingly, giving him a tight, much-needed squeeze before exiting his quarters. McCoy taps his foot against the floor, feeling uneasy and strangely elated all at once. 

After a few minutes of contemplation, he gets up and heads to Spock’s quarters.

* * *

“Come,” Spock says.

It is the first time McCoy has truly laid eyes on Spock since they’d beamed back from Venus II. Spock looks at him with something dark behind his veil before his eyes, his many walls stacked high to keep McCoy out. 

“Can we talk?” He asks, voice feeling small.

Spock looks into the middle distance, processing the request, and nods. He stands so that they are level. McCoy’s not sure it’s a good idea, it’s much easier to tug Spock into him, to hold him. They are only a few feet away.

“What happened down there?” McCoy muses, feeling slightly hysterical. He’s about to say more but Spock responds unnecessarily.

“We performed our mission adequately.” 

McCoy swallows, refusing to allow Spock to get a rise out of him. He is attempting to find the right words. He doesn’t want Spock to misunderstand. Not this time. 

“You seem to like that word, _performing_. Was all of it a performance to you?”

Spock remains quiet, eyes trained on Mccoy, watching carefully as the Doctor takes a step forward. He is undeliberate in the movement, not wanting to scare Spock away.

When McCoy realizes he isn’t going to get a response, he takes a deep breath and says, “The lines got a bit blurry at the end for me.” 

“Lines?” Spock asks, though McCoy has a feeling he understands perfectly well what he’s talking about.

“Spock, this isn’t easy for me,” McCoy says. “Hell, I didn’t even realize what I was feeling until we left the planet. Not for certain anyway.” 

Spock’s eyes widen only a fraction, unnoticeable to someone who doesn’t know him well. McCoy knows him damn well.

“I liked when you kissed me,” He says plainly, and watches Spock’s remarkable ability to contain a reaction. He merely tilts his head up an inch as McCoy continues. “The morning after the festival, I realized I still wanted to kiss you. I realized it wasn’t just the drugs we’d consumed.”

He takes another step forward; Spock doesn’t stiffen, or recoil. He remains quiet, staring silently into McCoy’s eyes. Waiting patiently for him to continue. 

“Our banter over the years, it’s sort of been coming to a breaking point. I had to realize sometime that I just wanted to kiss the deadpan look off your face and not just punch it, though I’ll admit to still wanting to punch you in the face on various occasions.” 

McCoy feels wildly calm as he finds he is able to form coherent words. He thought he was going to collapse in on himself, but he feels bold beneath Spock’s expectant eyes. Even with the strong chance Spock is going to reject him, he feels he could live with it. As long as Spock knows how he feels. 

Spock swallows, the only dent in his facade.

“I’m telling you, because I think it’s unfair to you that you don’t know. Or at least, I think you don’t know.” McCoy looks down on his feet, rolling up onto his heels. “Hell, you probably figured it out with the visuals I was sending your way during that last meeting with Piro.” 

He looks up, and Spock’s remains silent.

“Spock, I don’t expect you to say anything,” _But you better_ , “But, I’d like you to know that I enjoyed being your partner. Far more than I should have.”

They stare at each other for a few beats, and McCoy turns to leave, feeling a swell of nerves eating away at his insides like parasites. Spock grabs his arm and he turns back, eyes widening momentarily when he realizes what just happened. 

“Do not go, Leonard.”

McCoy feels very light. He nods as Spock processes for a few moments longer. 

“I find I hold a somewhat inconvenient affection for you,” He admits with an even tone. He could have admitted it with a bag over his head, McCoy would have been on cloud nine either way. He contains himself to listen to the rest of what Spock has to say.

“I felt strong shame at my wish to kiss you the way we had the night of the festival. Had I known you shared the same feeling, I might not have been so focused on my shame,” Spock says. It pains him to say it, McCoy knows it does. To admit this level of weakness. 

He finds Spock’s hand on his arm with his own and intertwines their fingers.

“I’ve missed this,” He says softly, squeezing Spock’s hand in his. “I think I may have gotten addicted to telepathy, knowing your feelings.” 

“Naturally, since you are consistently desperate for a physical reaction in correlation to my feelings,” Spock notes, his lips twitching just slightly. He wants to smile.

McCoy's eyes flit over Spock from head to toe. He hones in on his lips, “What made you think I didn’t feel the same way?”

“You quite enjoyed your time with Koil, if I recall,” Spock says cooly.

McCoy barks out a laugh.

“You are so jealous.”

“I do not experience jealousy.” 

McCoy tugs at his hand, pulling him closer so if he leans up a few inches, they could kiss easily and without effort. He desperately wants to. 

“You’re a lying sack of shit,” McCoy says, curling his free hand around the nape of Spock’s neck, dragging him in. The kiss is dry, and chaste at first. Spock releases his grip on McCoy’s hand to bring both of his to cup McCoy’s face in his hands. 

His fingers are long and soft, moving gently down to McCoy’s neck when McCoy darts his tongue out, wetting both of their lips. 

He drags Spock closer until their bodies are against each other, kissing him again with renewed fervor. Spock doesn’t have much practice with this level of intimacy, allowing McCoy to lead the way. He holds back a, _who’s dominant now_ , comment in favor of enjoying the sweet way that Spock’s right hand squeezes at his shoulder as he grows more accustomed to kissing, more assertive.

They stop for a few moments to catch their breath. McCoy smiles against his lips, not expecting this is where the day would end up. 

Spock is able to maintain his control, but his eyes are lidded, and his pupils are wide. McCoy can tell when he’s having an effect on someone even if they’re a damned Vulcan.

He runs a hand over Spock’s shoulder, moving to his abdomen, feeling hard muscle beneath fabric. His fingertips twitch over the side of his hips. He wants to take the shirt off of Spock, but he wants to go at the Vulcan’s pace even moreso. 

“When we were under the effect of the aphrodisiac, I wanted desperately to give in, even knowing we would regret it in the morning,” McCoy admits, his cheeks slightly red. “I think I would have with enough prodding. You could have had your way with me that night,” he says in a sultry voice, watching Spock’s eyes flit over his lips and back up to his eyes, as if he realized his own momentary weakness. 

He leans in to kiss the side of Spock’s lips, down to his perfect jawline. His ears are just out of reach, but he promises himself one of these days he’s going to show them a good time. 

“Did you want it, beneath the fog of the drugs, did you really want it?” McCoy asks, hands at Spock’s hips as he kisses down his neck. He can only hope he’s driving Spock crazy. He’s the only one out of breath and on edge it seems, but when Spock drags him back in for a hard kiss, he thinks maybe he still has a knack for love-making. 

Spock pulls back, cheeks mildly green along with the tips of his ears. 

“Would you allow me to–”

“Yes,” McCoy declares. The look of pure vexation on Spock’s face is endlessly amusing, but he doesn’t want Spock annoyed. He kisses him and pulls back just as fast. “Anything,” he clarifies, “I’m open to anything you want. I just want you.” 

Spock tilts his head, looking fondly at him before he grips McCoy tightly, kissing him hard once more, with an intensity that has McCoy weak in the knees. Out of nowhere with a shocking alien strength, Spock lifts him up by his hips and McCoy barely has time to fling his limbs around him and hold on as he’s tossed down on the edge of Spock’s bed. Spock gracefully falls to his knees, and McCoy realizes in a few moments of hysteria what he plans to do. 

“Spock,” he says firmly, enough for Spock’s hands to halt in their downward slope on his spread open legs, and for him to look up at McCoy with innocent wide eyes. 

His resolve weakens further. “Spock, are you sure?” he asks.

“You asked for anything I want,” Spock says in a low voice and the response is enough for McCoy to feel the strain in his briefs, watching with unbelieving eyes as Spock moves closer between his legs, and begins to undo his trousers. 

McCoy feels a small wave of self-doubt as Spock reaches into his briefs and brings out his cock, marveling at the shape of it. He looks away, unable to cope with the visual in front of him. He feels Spock’s lips on the head of his dick after a moment, moving his tongue curiously over the slit. His hands move from McCoy’s knees to his inner thighs, tightening on the skin beneath fabric as he dives down. 

One of McCoy’s hands instantly flies into Spock’s hair, gripping and tugging in response to the wet heat of his mouth finding out what he likes, what he _loves_. 

“Jesus,” he breathes as Spock nearly takes him in full. “This your first time?”

“Yes,” Spock says, after pulling off with an obscene pop he doesn’t seem to notice. With a neutral expression, he adds, “Am I performing adequately?” 

McCoy nods frantically, and lets out as a sharp noise when Spock continues what he’s doing. If it were anyone else, he’d say, _like hell it’s your first time_. He bobs down with an almost practiced ease. His hips thrust up minutely, as he tries desperately not to choke the Vulcan beneath him.

“Spock, you’re beautiful,” his whisper is strained, but he earns a hum from Spock. He moans, gripping tighter to his hair. “I don’t think I can–”

Spock pulls off and McCoy forces himself not to scream. His voice sounds hoarse only from his actions; “I would prefer if you were to ejaculate in my mouth. Is that also your preference?” 

McCoy is heaving, staring down at him with wild eyes. “Has anyone ever told you, you’re fucking insane?” 

Spock merely tilts his head, lips sheen with spit and effort. McCoy’s dick throbs.

“Yes, yes, just do it. It’s my preference,” He says, relieved by the feeling of Spock’s mouth back on him, bobbing faster and more efficiently. 

When he does come, Spock keeps his mouth on him, swallowing down all he is willing to give, bringing an explorative hand up to stroke the base of McCoy’s dick just as it slips out of his mouth. “Fascinating,” he says, as the Doctor lets out one last shaky breath, gathering and recouping his senses. 

McCoy grabs him by his shirt and drags him up to the bed, pushing him flat down on the mattress. He enjoys Spock’s wide eyes before he rips Spock’s pants halfway down his thighs in one sharp movement.

He brings a hand to his mouth to spit into it, falling over Spock’s body until they’re aligned in just the right way. McCoy grips Spock’s erection with his slick hand and begins to pump him at a punishing pace. It’s too fast for Spock to recover from his shock. He gasps, eyes fluttering shut as he attempts to control his breathing.

McCoy watches him through his eyelashes, where he’s nibbling at his jaw. 

“Feels too damn good to not react, huh?” McCoy asks in a husky voice, and he knows Spock likes it with the way his brow furrows, and his lips part. “It’s filthy how good you were at that,” McCoy adds, remembering the stellar blowjob from moments prior. 

He looks down for a moment at his own hand pumping over the hard green appendage. The reality of what they’re doing washes over him in waves. He kisses Spock, open-mouthed, encouraging him to open up to him. He does, gripping a bit urgently to McCoy’s face. He feels Spock’s fingers dance along the points of contact he usually reserves for a mind-meld, and he swears that for a moment he can feel Spock’s pleasure as his own. His spent cock gives a sympathetic twitch.

They’ll have to use that to their advantage another time.

“Come on, Spock, let go,” McCoy drawls, kissing up to the tips of his ears. Spock lets out a breathy sound that isn’t quite a moan, but is more than a gasp. 

He grins, quite enjoying the way Spock struggles to keep his desire under wraps. He slows his pace only to slide a thumb over the head of his dick and speed up once more.

“Doctor,” Spock warns, a firm hand on the hand that isn’t wringing pleasure from him. McCoy hums, kissing his cheek with a following love-bite to his neck. 

“I’m fond of you too,” he whispers, and Spock turns his head away from McCoy, chest heaving high once as he comes quietly, and open-mouthed. His hips twitch as McCoy’s hand slows and is covered with Spock’s warm release. Spock’s hips twitch up twice more, chasing the end of his climax. It’s adorable.

“We could’ve done this a week ago,” McCoy realizes out loud. He plops down beside Spock, shaking out the hand that is beginning to ache. 

“Perhaps we are stubborn,” Spock admits, sounding as elated as he ever will, McCoy guesses. He grins huddling closer to Spock.

“Hey peaches, look at me,” McCoy orders and Spock turns. He grins wider, smugger. “I just got you to respond to _peaches_.” 

Spock looks positively bemused, not for the first time.

He still reaches a hand up, running a hand through McCoy’s hair in wonder. McCoy’s heart soars. “Hey, Spock, you never told me what Ashayam means.”

“Beloved,” Spock replies simply. 

McCoy’s eyes grow glossy and after a moment’s thought, he reaches with a hand where Spock’s rests on the pillow, and presses two fingers to Spock’s index and middle. Spock lets out an affectionate sigh, pressing back lightly. 

“Damn Hobgoblin,” he mutters, eyes closing with contentment. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading! This took a lot out of me, and I will probably not be writing anything even close to 20k for a long while. Spones forever, though.


End file.
